So that is the holiday over
That is the holiday done
It’s been an odd old time
I fear for my oldest son
Yet how might I have lived
In a small house, no work
Nothing much to aim for
But pastimes & a dog to run
That we don’t communicate
Itself a self evident truth
I broke him as a young boy
My parting was a loaded gun
Lust took me from his mother
My ambition; to set myself free
All I wanted wasn’t enough
After the rough I chased the fun
He doesn’t like what he sees
Thinks I’m full of fancy stuff
A tuppence a’penny millionaire
See, it is his clarity that I shun
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149