MICHAEL DOM

Son, of all the things you could possibly
Become, do not, I say, do not ever
Become a poet, son. Let me list three
Reasons why, and hopefully when I am
Gone, you’ll understand my views. Here’s number
One. They smell of dog poop steaming in the
Sun. The pong hits your nose, and they call it
Song. Cruel bastards! Number two, they’re filthy
Bums, always begging for coins, licking their
Gums, to sweet-talk or befuddle you for
Fun. And three, they’re crooked as a hook and
Some. They’ll steal all your glory and when they’re
Done, the newspapers won’t know your name from
Tom. Dick, son, become a politician.