There once was a woman from the left coast
who watched me for years make of myself toast.
Intrigued she was,
but silent because
what she thought of me intimidated her most.

One day came along when I nodded hello.
She spoke cautiously, her knees firm jello.
But drawn she was
to my jerk chicken sauce
and behold she soon moved to tell me so.

We casually danced ourselves into chat,
covering mostly just this and that.
But she hinted discreetly
to take it more deeply,
"Here look at what I have under my hat."

I'm cool with it, sure, let's chill with each other.
You got some traits that are quite worth the bother.
But do you really know me,
or did you fail to see
my permanently entrenched sophomoric druther?

It's one night late when I'm seeking a friend,
and discover by accident she can't attend.
So out came my humour,
quite playfully for bloomer.
I guess she's not home, so let this night end.

Then all of a sudden the chick who approached me
thinks I'm weird, no psychotic and starts to flee.
Let her go.
She didn't know
that my spirits hitch rides in the coupe de'comedy.

So here's another who dared to peek in,
and brave the perils of my sit-n-spin.
Of course I believe
that what made her leave
is exactly what with she wanted to begin.