My Oldest Friend.

Socrates was one savage son of a gun He waltzed around town with an urbane veneer Trumping the pimps and priests he passed by His lazy confidence demanded the respect reserved For kings and queens and British prime ministers Without a home, the world was a playground all his own He was always gentle, always genial, Because he knew 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 cat. Good old Socrates, good boy.