Son, you son of a gun, now that is done
who told you
that you can't be a doctor, a rooter-rotor
Son, you can even be nun
they can hide, but they can't rum
My attorney, my son
so much for this world, hold the
yolk, at bayshore
Son, my professor, confessor
I'm your dad, your
compressor...I'm happy with your
like father, like son, be like me
a frolic, work-aholic, never leaves
behind his bottle
a professional alcoholic.
copyright (c) 2012
© Copyright 2016 Juli Monat. All rights reserved.
Essay / Humor
Poem / Poetry
Script / Horror
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