To My Son
Son, let your mouth strangle silence -
The silence that breeds pushovers
For profitless is the burden of a caged tongue
When spikes in thy bottom doth lodge.
Son, let not the bubbling discourses,
Of the raucous raconteurs
In cold blood, butcher your hardihood
For rhetoric is just but the flailing of the tongue.
And, Remember, O son, the ways of the wise;
That gold lies snug in potted jaws,
And a little chatter cocktailed in a little hush,
Make amity in the depths of humanity.
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