No More Goody Two Shoes Poem by Robin Bennett

I admit, I lie and cheat,
my goody two shoes,
haven't fit since I-
was a small child.

My last year of university-
taught me more,
than poetry and my,
snobby French speak.
The local frat house parties,
brewed rebels in a
vat of homemade moonshine.
Just like Grandpa did.

It was March,
and the oak trees,
began preening their-
leaves and camilla
blooms for the
seasons that lay ahead.

Oh, how I remember
that Friday night.
Amazingly how a-
pickled mind recalls
a bag of sins so easily.
God and his bag of tricks!

His name was Charlie,
and he invented perfection.
Looking back, the red dress,
I wore was a walking ad
for pure smut.


When I sobered up,
I gathered my dirty laundry,
and one hell of a hangover and
left my morals on the night stand.

I still like Vodka,
red dresses,
and God.
For some reason,
I stopped speaking French.
It sounded vile,
ever since that night.