(second draft of a poem I did while faffing about with verse last week)
When I was young I went to Cormicann
With Fortune there as my pursuit.
I stole a kiss from Molly Gann,
And got another from her father’s boot.
I spent a week out cutting purses,
My skill consummate, nay, absolute!
My instruments nearly humming, ready
For picking risto’s silken fruit.
Until this artist met his fellow,
Of basest stripe, barely a man.
Nabbed my bulging pocketbook,
As he seized my own out-snatching hand.
They threw me in with loons and dirkers,
Bone-filthy men of horrid needs.
"That’s it," thought I, in my despair,
No nope was there I might be freed.
But soon I tasted sun again,
Before my eyes had rotted blind.
They might have still, had not my hand,
That town, and Fortune left behind.