Case #7

The dope that Y was close gave X a start.
He dropped a fin and copped the dishy sketch.
This skirt might be a piece of cake to catch.
All eyes, he tailed her down a winding street.
Those gams would give a Mummer cause to strut.
And there she was, the itch he hoped to scratch.
On the rocks, like thirty-year-old Scotch.
He wished that she would give it to him straight.
Up the steps he snooped, and caught a break.
He had the bulge—she hadn’t peeped him yet.
But on the other side he watched her blow.
She jumped a nearby hack on heel and toe.
All X could do was dangle, cool his jets.
She dusted out, lammed off, a clean sneak.

Dizzy with the dame, a full-on bunny.
His pump was doing backflips in his chest.
Running down the jane had left him juiced.
He felt like he’d been slipped a bunch of bennies.
She’d dumped his compos mentis in the boonies.
A quicker broad than any chick he’d chased.
He couldn’t tail her taxi, was the gist.
No kale, spondulix, lettuce, cabbage, money.
On the nut, he tried to crab her grift.
Why'd she kiss him off and take a powder?
The Water Works replied with churn and buffet.
The roaring of the falls got louder and louder.
If only he could thumb or glaum a lift.
But like a bangtail, he would have to hoof it.

[12:00 / falling / Italian sonnet / heart / Water Works]