He has a thing
That hangs on him;
Keeps it with him
At night, asleep,
In light of day,
He keeps his thing
At work or play.
It's craddled and cuddled,
It seems to double;
He's kept it all these years.
He hides it from fam and friends,
He'll keep his thing
From now til then,
Never knowing how or when
This thing will be no more.
It's not a ribbon,
It's not a bow,
How he got it
He doesn't know.
A keepsake that he never shows,
Unless you visit him,
But you're not invited in.
He's dogged by his thing,
His private, personal sin,
Thirsting from within.
Although his cup's filled to the brim,
It's not enough for him,
And his thing.