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.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
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.
