Without a Bur
She says she always falls
For the wrong kind
And she has cried foolish tears
For every one.
“My choices will be different,
Tomorrow,”
Or so she says
When every thrill is done.
But then she finds another diamond
In the ruff
And each bad-boy sees the hole
In her soul.
He shows her the darker side
Of love
And once again
The drama takes its toll.
“Nice guys finish last,”
So she says.
They do not grab her heart
In dangerous ways.
They are kind, respectful,
And do not hit her;
Nor do they take her money
And disappear for days.
“Maybe someday,”
That’s what she says while thinking
About an imaginary bad-boy
With a love just for her.
He’d be a tough guy
That would never do her wrong;
You know the kind,
That saddle without the bur.
An observation in my youth, and even now.
