Thinking ahead, I bought myself a golden
ticket, an original idea, walked and
got in line like the rest, beholdened
to a subscription letter in my hand.
In front, the women, no -- ruddy giggly girls
dither in the queue for one of your kisses,
hardly aware that I've quietly reversed
back in line, a once-removed missus.
I don't mind (I lie) if you've had ten, twenty,
even a hundred (God forbid!) since then.
I've had my share, dismissed others easily
from a line not unlike this. Sweet chameleon,
so what if it ends where the sun doesn't shine?
Despite the odds, I wish I were last in your line.