Slowly he beckons, the second son

Day of reckoning, sickening, numb

Come to the show, hear a low strum

A ho-hum, hum drum dirge

urging on a surge that will never come


Remember the child

half tame, half wild, never mild

Skilled in the way he smiled at her

A piercing look, that stare came out of nowhere


A nibble on the line, detached from divine

and primed to love the fruits of field and vine

Bursting from daily grind, our hero will find

fauna finally at one with his mind


And in time he will fade, but she will not

Pruned from the pinnacle, pivotal to the plot

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