Fatal Flaw Poem by John W. McEwers

Grandfather Mark,
who spoke proudly of his right hook
and the number of men who he'd broken with it
was great in all ways but one.

He drank too much whiskey,
which made him a pungent pugilist,
a smell he could hardly hide
behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

He loved the fat
of a slice of bacon,
or twenty slices of bacon
which he valiantly slurped down
every breakfast at the morning.

But it wasn't the drinking
or the smoking
or cholesterol that was Grampa's flaw,
but rather the fact that
he had a heart attack,
because his heart was weak
from too much love.