Elegy To My Son Or What You Will
Scoot, kid, in any juvenile contraption, please
impart your light to my understanding of the world.
Yours are the funny hours, the funny job and some bad ideas
still young and drunk and to bed not long after ten or eleven.
I am so dumb. Cowboy of old swaying a hat, cornered calf
my world's under mist, loving razors, no dreams of any sort
the handkerchief is a traveling bag, all mouth is the bartender
dramatizing the meanings of nature - the poor fool is hanged
While little bunnies turn guns on themselves. Go play,
and do not leave. sorry to bother you fatherly ghost,
das nachtgespenst! To this day still, I am amazed and hidden.
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