I thought the chance, it was a hundred to one. 
On one thumb I could count up the percentage of my coming 
undone. 
But then some calculation of impatiently fated rhymes:
sour patch ribbon to the wreck of my valentine.
That a fine mess like this should get dished, 
I would have made it more unlikely if I had one wish. 
I take ish with the interstitial liquid bliss 
and insist another double on the rocks with twist. 
This is a fist full of good credit. 
This is a circumstance that I must edit. 
I said it ever thusly, with the bust knee 
you could trust me, 
can't front without two feet to step fuss-free. 
But see, that's just fine. I lost mine, 
handed then the bandit (thin) my last dime, 
watched the wheels spin, thinking infinitesimal 
my ten-decimal chance. The professional 
gamblers scoffed (but the bells went off).