The GypseyJingle Curse is an oral tradition,
with a portent for trouble and a style all its own.
Like a griot or a minstrel or some banjo-faced moon pie,
yapping for love like a dog on a bone.
Not a brawler, but a bawler and ol' yeller when heated,
and heated quite easily in passion or rage.
He's a talker and a stalker for laughs and a party
and the world as it passes for life on the stage.
He's a pisser and a pleaser, clean your windows* for a dollar,
like a bum by the off-ramp, reflecting your dread.
He's a punner and a gunner and a pruner of diphthongs;
a hyphen in rhyme twixt the quick and the dead.
The Curse of the Gypsey is metrical thinking;
iambs dull thoughts, but trochaic is worse.
Pity the Gypsey with drums in his thalamus,
and the sing-along palsy of regular verse.