A Real, Hated Son. Poem by Michael Gale

A hundred and one degrees fahrenheit, in the shade, this day...
Might make me resemble a over wet and perspiring, spongy, way.

The shade, ah yes-the shade, all cooling and warm, as now...
Makes my skin appear real sagging and baggy as a dried out cow.

My utters just a blow-in' freely, in the wind, my well enemied friend...
If i could hate anyone, that I want, It would be you, you unfriend, You are dead.

I would dropp a quarter from the Empire State Building, onto your head...
After reading this promise, You should be afraid and for your safety-wanting to dread.

Is this a COWardly thing? ...
Not if You are the Devil, and a flying, with your reddened wing.

You are the heat, that makes me hate...
You make me thirst, and perspiring wait.

Shadow, You are my friend...
Unlike the heat, Not my end.

Water, cool, cool water, surrounding a rag...
Around my neck, You happily hang.

My mouth and throat...
Is parched and dry, and aridly
scratchy, as I bloat.

The Devil, made You do it...
Aw Hell, and even screw it.

I give upon my oath...
The Sun's killing heat, I loathe.

No more, no more, I say, I say..
No more tormenting, and torchering way.