In the spring I turned 17
Someone I liked considerably
Told me I was dodgy

Now like everyone with good sense
I was a bit insulted
For me the bruise was different
At least from those with an understanding of British slang

I was a born again
San Francisco Giant fan
And with my conversion experience
Had come all the requisite antipathy
For anything vaguely associated with the Los Angeles Dodgers

Being lumped with those cretins
faintly soured me
Denying my dodginess led to retreat, appeal
But no questions on my part
Though I refused to claim injury

It was not until recently
That I recalled my childish ignorant hurt
And realized in a perversion of pride
I’ve been dodgy since a small child

Had I been aware
Or better still
Less foolish and certain
I’d have known well
(And well before now)
That being dodgy
Is a perfect tool
For avoiding the blues