My father’s son is the ultimate bastard.
Sired by three fathers and two mistresses
Sowed at a brothel in the ghetto
On three nights, dank and drunk
But he’s also a monk
His temple on Kilimanjaro is grand
With loud quietude from coherent humming
His disciples wear green leaves and thick barks
I did tell you he’s a misfit
My father’s son drinks ales like fish
Puff smokes like the steel mill furnace
And knows the flavours of whores by sight
He was never on any airplane.
But my father’s son has been to places
Captured by map or imagination
He mentored Gulliver, Alice and Apollo
My father’s son has got some loose nuts
Doctor said it’s “delusion of Napoleonic grandiose”
He’s skipped his med for a while.
Did I also tell you he’s a poet?
Photo: Alnajafi Blog