Spawn Poem by Guy Northam
Spawn
Like a toad dissatisfaction sits;
A lad, only good with words;
Not a man, hands dirty
With mechanical bits.
The taste of their contempt,
Their gentle mockery.
He'll never come to much, just words;
Not like his dad, that clever man,
Now he could fix a thing or two.
He had bare hands, and no need of books.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: failure
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4/25/2024 4:26:34 AM # 1.0.0.1119
