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.
Copyright © Jonathan Hurst | Year Posted 2009
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