CHORES
Bitches! Bastards!
Everything to them
is the lawn cut and the bursting
dog walked,
and I without money for a lifestyle
they give me the pay equivalent
of an hour
of a workman’s salary
and I, squandering and literary,
prone to pursue deprecating
luxury
beg off to the dopefiends and
millionaires
nervepinched beside me.
A genuine genius in the house
suffering parental gruelling
generosity
O they treat me like their child
to be proud
But I am turbaned in the shroud
they leave the unsound and
poverty-dead in
with, to offset the pallor, the
penniless grin:
the platinum fixture of the
cloud.
The rest of my life will be spent
siphoning off my benefactors
and benefactresses’ graces.
The precocious and talented are
not meant
ever, under God, to earn a cent.
St-Lambert, circa 1982.
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