Both Children cold on the outside
Disinterested on the inside
Each accuse me of my peculiar faults.
The heart on the sleeve,
The frown on the brow,
The complaint on the lip.
Each blames for their own peculiar traits,
The inability to achieve
because of lack of riches
which was their right
to have bestowed.
And so my own lessons come flapping in my face
back in my face, straight in my face.
A Moaning in the Gloaming,
There'sa wolf in the kitchen,
A drudge in the bed,
Whilst computer screens burn holes
On their childish psyches
No comments:
Post a Comment