f major

                        Please,
            Help me not muck it up.
  Daren’t leave it on my luck too-easily:

            I’m quittingly queasy.
                Can’t tell if it’s you or yours truly—
Might be me; no…

    Almost certainly.
                ‘Cause all my hopes are the hurricane
          Through our sapling-tree…

                As I tend to blow.
  If even we’re inexcusably insane,
                  Join me, my color-bow,

In that bravest lee:
              Sheltering there ‘neath the rain,
      I’m still just the windiest-whip from possibility.