They told him when his father died:
It’s vulgar to rejoice,
To which he pitilessly replied:
I never had a choice.
I was my father’s only son,
So whose fault was it that
When I grew I was to become
A cold, unfeeling brat?
His mother died that self-same year.
And all the neighbours wept,
But he shed not a single tear,
And comfortably slept.
The village folk thought ill of him,
But he was bothered not,
They’d soon bow to his every whim,
For he’d been left the lot.
The lawyer angrily enquired
Why did he feel such hate
For those who’d tragically expired
And left him their estate.
I mourn only departed friends,
My parents were not so;
True, there are some who say blood lends
To stronger ties, but no,
That never has been, never will,
For bonds unfreely made
Are oft’ congenitally ill,
And all the sooner frayed.
[The above was first published in Wrong Side Of The River.]
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