Socrates was a savage son of a gun
Waltzing across town with an urbane gravitas,
Trumping the pimps and priests that passed
His lazy confidence demanded the reverence oft reserved
For kings and queens and prime ministers
Without a home, the world was a playground all his own
He was always gentle, always genial,
Because he descried through his one good eye
That dregs like me had it rough enough already
He was my friend,
And then he died,
And no one cared but me.
While functional American boys were
Learning from their fathers,
I was learning from that feral cat.
Good old Socrates.
Good boy, Socrates.