Wednesday, 14 October 2015
He shoehorned his kids to indifferent careers.
He spooned little words into lady luck’s ears.
He fettled his tax return, filling a form,
and wetted the parched through the eye of a storm.
He lashed up a story to tell to the Boss.
He lavished a drink on that man on the Cross.
He braided the hair of his daughters and sons,
cried ‘Havoc’ in paradise, pulling a gun.
He swindled his brothers from plenty of cash
but sensed that salvation was not by the lash.
Utopia called him and, turning away,
he painted his life just a pixel a day
and threw fire and brimstone to get his own way.