My aunt’s in the garden,
     Growing gold.
My uncle’s in his new shirt,
     Growing mold.
My cuz’s in Af-ghan-i-stan,
     Growing cold.
I’m swimming in wine,
     Growing old.

This piece should make sense,
     But it don’t.
This piece should tell tales,
     Still, it won’t.
I’m home decades later,
     Or so I wrote.
My daddy’s days dead
     And so I’ll tote.