Skinflint

Shares everything of his, lower than the normal dose Kindred and all relatives in the house, share one hose Incredibly stingy that on both his hands, weed grows No seat around, he shares the flower pot with the rose For his son’s laboured breathing, he offers his own nose Life roars in long poetry, he sees it in a short prose In all his displayed portraits, none has his complete pose Nearly a millionaire but his family borrows Tortured soul, clinging unto self with hands, always close.