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.
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