Son, Pull Up Your Socks Poem by John Sensele

Anger sometimes chokes my throat
Sowing seeds so somber I fear no clear
Path lies ahead beyond the bed on which my coat
Rests as crests and breasts too near

To tragedy, to malady rather than comedy
Tease to please a diseased thought whose nought
Means mean tins, sin dins whose twins daddy
Condemns because no taught tact got caught

In silly solutions, ribald resolutions and lame liquids
Meandering, maiming, miming agile arguments
For reason to prevail despite veils and weeds
Sprouting in vintage vineyards, conjugating comments

In moments insanity permanent or transient
Inhabits in clerical cassocks
White, grey, purple or ancient
When God's hand tells me, ‘Son, pull up your socks.'