We never saw eye to eye, you and I. Me with my growth spurts and eclipse of hair, you with high-buttoned shirts, cravat-ensnared. We took turns to overlook each other.
Like your birthday on Valentine's: I, aged nine, ate with open flies. You mocked until I begged you cease. You told me boys don't cry, but smile and grit their teeth. Callous, Clements, but I've ground on since.
And ten years on, your white flag got snagged, when your lesson on how to heat one's whisky in one's crotch landed you at Matron's feet, and I revelled as I watched. Maybe we should have been friends.
There's a lot of you in me, D.V.C. but a pinch of salt for each trait. So let's bury the hatchet where you died and let's put it down to fate that I wasn't by your side,