Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Et tu, Brute?

"Beware of the Ides of March..."

And in the spirit of paranoia and not trusting anyone, here's a poem I wrote:

When I dreamt of being a gentleman
As a lad, but 12 years old
I played my manor had a library
Filled with books all bound in gold.

And I will have read every single book
That rests alone with the dust
So each one will now and always be
My confidant whom I trust.

Whom shall a man trust when he is alone
In his doings? You might say,
“His brothers, his friends, his pastor, his wife.”
And if you were right, I may.

But brothers will readily take your life
To gain more your father’s wealth-
With their fingers crossed, they take the red wine,
And toast goodness to your health.

Friends- what friends, pals, chums, or buddies-what else?
The lads your meet at the bar?
Beneath the face lies Benedict Arnold.
They are but fiends with an “r”.

Your pastor? Oh, that stout Godly man!
Whose sermons are ever heard.
Gives only one advice to his children,
Tis this: read more of the Word.

Of our wives and lovers: cursed women!
All they have is their good looks
Nothing in their minds at all, Thus therefore,
My son, keep your mind to books.

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