Ass Umptions

Buddy knew fucking well

That well enough wasn’t alone.

He knew that bad shit happens

And the chickens always came home.

Guessing was a game that few can play.

You extrapolate tomorrow into today.

And then the brave will often say

This or that will go this way

Then, on that thought,

The thoughts get caught

In a whirlpool of circumstances.

And now, they take their chances.

That they might be right

They hang on tight

To the swirling wind that they spit into.