By John Thomas Tuft

It is said there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip

And that you cannot hide your lying eyes

Never draw to an inside straight and

Don’t tell your wish or spoil the surprise.

But just like that aching skip of the heart

When your little boy no longer reaches for your hand

And your own birthday wish is still for a pony

Deleting the pictures does not erase memory’s demand.

If I swear to never lie again

Be sure to look me dead in the eyes

I always draw to the inside straight

I speak my wishes aloud and give away the surprise.