Thursday, April 24, 2014
Son I'm Gonna Die Someday I am proud at your stride though stubby like your mother's and how slight your talent at the ebony and ivory, but mine too, don't worry. I am proud of you, by God, and don't you worry. Son of mine, Don't you worry at it. Don't you worry at it nary a none, dear son. I am the knighted-now and the renowned but once -- boy wonder of us elders' yore. But son, I want the better for you than your wiser me has had, want that you work hard that your father's lore be buried never. I have known renown. I have been spun around and about myself and my Lord the biceps on that Fortuna broad! I tell you what, by God, Fortuna does her share of heavy lifting. I hear her wheel outweighs the sun, the moon, the world's sum total with the soul as your unit. I said, Hell yeah son by God I tell you what. There is no best, no might, no always, no never never, but you never know is what I will tell you, whisper it so, on that day I sleep for good. I hope that good night is of nary a cirrus, of harry a stratus, yet rains me thither into yon, and son I ain't afraid not a smidge to go gentle in it. Gentle when I do. (That's why your Mama wouldn't let me name you Thomas.) Son of mine who's always going somewhere, you will say a sweet take care to the breathing me, you will think that your farewell is for the will-leave. True farewells, my boy, are for the left-already. Son, I'm lookin' forward to all them pastel-colored what dreams may come. I think heaven's probably nice in summer, but I bet God's butt cheeks hell pays rent kickin' butt. Hell yeah son by God I tell you what. By God, son, there ain't nothin' to fear. Before I go gently, I reckon the about-to Is all you'll ever need to hear. I have spent my days, my life entire honing up this soul of mine so shoddy for the moment when the soul escapes the body.
Posted by Lamictal Glade at 11:36 AM