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Poem	My Boss keeps sporty girls, they say; His belly's big with cheer. He squanders in a single day What I make in a year. For I must toil with bloody sweat, And body bent and scarred, While my whole life-gain he could bet Upon a single card. By Boss is big and I am small; I slave to keep him rich. He'd look at me like scum and call Me something of a bitch . . . Ah no! he wouldn't use that phrase To designate my mother: Despite his high and mighty ways, My Boss is my twin-brother. Conceived were we in common joy And born in common pain; But while I was a brawny boy My brother stole my brain. As dumb was I as he was smart, As blind as he could see; And so it was, bang from the start He got the best of me. I'm one of many in his pay; From him I draw my dough; But he would fire me right away If he should hap to know A week ago he passed me by; I heard his wheezing breath, And in his pouched and blood-shot eye I saw, stark-staring - Death. He has his women, cards and wine; I have my beans and bread. But oh, the last laugh will be mine The day I hear he's dead. Aye, though we shared a common womb (I gloat to think of it) Some day I'll stand beside his tomb And loose my glob and . . . spit.
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