6: the Twenties

Burn through the photographs, you wretch,

and take the things you want,

leaving soon, n'goin' to forget

all the things that you've taught.

A plague of nothing, but the lack there of,

is how this slow torture is worse than none.

I will see you again, perhaps up above,

but not again, as my father's son.

You'll fill the shoes of those before

and taint me with that lonely score,

for they've all turned, and headed for the sky,

that oceanic view of orcis isle.

Leave my friend. Have good years ahead.

Safe travels to Washington, and to your death.