From my Crucked Rib

In deep thoughts today,

I hear we were molded from clay,

But was she made from my crucked rib?

And put in my crib?

 

She’s not a straight script,

If you catch my drift

With the asides,

And the decides

 

She’s as strong as a stallion,

But she’s also a chameleon,

Today she’s cold, tomorrow warm,

And at times she breeds the storm

 

She’s not red or white but pink,

She glows at the sight of my ink,

Her “yes” used to be a “No,”

But there is even more!

 

She’s a natural artist,

The makeup would say the least,

And with the hill’s heels

She lives as she feels

 

 

Crucked I say,

Yet without her I can’t stay,

She’s the oil,

And together we toil,

 

But again I ask and wonder,

This question I ponder,

Was the woman made from a crucked rib?

And put in my crib?

 

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