Patches

If only he had listened

when Mother said to wait,

But he refused to listen

and went ahead instead.

It's such a silly story

when you sit and query.

But when you hear the story,

you can't help but laugh.

He said he had an epiphany

When he was taking a shower,

He wanted to save him some money

So he decided to turn on his mini 'mower'.

It's only ten dollars! everyone said

But his mind was set dead

He wanted to get all that hair off his head!

And then he emerged with both hands full

One with a shaver, and the other filled with regret.

He turned a full round to show us

As he muttered words of cuss

Long here, short there, stray hairs,

And patches everywhere.

The shaver had stopped working

halfway through the cut,

It didn’t help that his hair was thick,

So the small shaver barely did the trick!

I could not stop laughing

While my mother kept on harping,

At the spectacular sight of holes

On my little brother's bowl shaped head.

It's only ten dollars! everyone said

But his mind was set dead

He wanted to get all that hair off his head.

Well now he’s bald, and shiny on top,

When all he wanted was a number-two.

The next time you decide to cut your own hair,

Remember the story of Patches and his hair.

Lament

LAMENT

Listen, children:

Your father is dead.

From his old coats

I'll make you little jackets:

I'll make you little trousers

From his old pants.

There'll be in his pockets

Things he used to put there,

Keys and pennies

Covered with tobacco;

Dan shall have the pennies

To save in his bank;

Anne shall have the keys

To make a pretty noise with.

Life must go on,

And the dead be forgotten.

Life Must Go On,

Though good men die;

Anne, eat your breakfast.

Dan, take your medicine;

Life must go on;

I forget just why.

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Theodore Rothke, "My Papa's Waltz"

The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt. [Jina]