Poet#12 "F" "Untitled"

Fred Fiddlefaddle was a fleet-fingered thief,
A felonious, furtive low-life,
He lifted fine fortunes off of affluent folk,
And tales of his flimflams were rife.

He forged, he pilfered, he fleeced fools for profit,
He defrauded indifferently,
He rifled fanciful flats for funds,
Filling his coffers for free.

But one fateful day, Fred finally faltered,
He foozled in a fancy cafe,
His famed swift fingers fairly flubbed up,
Shoplifting a fried fish fillet.

The chef was a ferrety, foul-mouthed fishwife,
Who caught a sniff of Fred's ruffianly whiff,
Her fierce falcon-eyes flashed fearsomely,
And froze Fred as he fumbled his mischief.

“You shameful, nefarious riffraff!” cried she,
Forfending Fred from her food,
“You filthy, featherbrained, foolhardy fiend!”
(We effaced further f-words too crude.)

The fishwife flew at the unfortunate thief,
Lifting him from the floor by his scruff,
She buffeted Fred with a flurry of biffs,
And a fusillade of fisticuffs.

After a flogging that felt like forever,
Fred finally floundered free,
Cuffed and scuffed, roughed up and rebuffed,
He was forced to forfeit and flee.

Now Fred is a fretful fugitive,
Afraid of that fatal female,
Forsworn not to filch from that frightful cafe,
Should his thiefly finesse ever fail.

The End

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