I’m riding on my board;
stencils on wheels: flames aglow.
I huff with my nose
and get a whiff of smoke—
not like from a fire pit
of hickory and briar.
My feet feel singed:
Ouch! Fire!

Board’s alight
as onward it roams.
I’m feeling like flambé
or like some ribs still on the bones
that are cooked and done through,
ready to leave the pyre.
My pants are singed:
Ouch! Fire!!

The thing rolls beneath me
like a 2-wheeled cart
that’s burning bright.
How’d the conflagration start?!
Off I should be jumping—
I thought I was cool,
but this board I now spurn,
because I’m the fuel.

Smell roast like toast and soon I fret:
dammit, my attire’s
like a ’mallow fête
when sugared goo starts to fry.
The burning gets
so bad I jump high. . .
down my legs piss
drowns fire!

Doomed fire—
spritzing on fire.
Burning me was fire,
but now it is urine-drowned,
’xpired.
Douching spree,
burning cease,
’xpired.

Buy ’board? Don’t!