Markie's Advice
His future was assured. I’ll tell you why.
His father owned “Repairs and Parts Supply”.
Though only twelve, already Markie could
your median income at a glance descry
and whistle as he raised your engine’s hood.
With me, he mastered nothing. Didn’t try.
What need had he for Treaties of Versailles?
Before he came to school he’d greet the crew
he knew he would inherit, by and by,
and sell a solenoid – or maybe two.
My classroom, in those days, happened to lie
across the schoolyard. Out of habit, I
arrived before the others. There I’d sit
completely unobserved by prying eye,
and grade some papers, daydream how to quit.
Young Markie would approach me on the sly,
just me and him, alone at Fleetwood High:
his head appeared around my door to shout
(it never varied – what a funny guy)
“Just sort your life out, sir!” and then run out.
Some jokes are full-on funny, some are wry:
and humour sometimes makes us want to cry:
our choices, often hard to justify.
My friends all wish, and say so with a sigh,
I’d followed Markie’s counsel. So do I.
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