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On birth my son looked subtle and soft,
Even on crying, made musical notes,
Forced his will when held aloft,
And, when asleep, seemed painted strokes --
So everytime we were with him
Or running around to cater some whim
Or taking him out in the sun to rest
Or bathing him to show his best
We wondered -- each time we wondered:
Not tired we were, nor pressed for time...
Then it tinkled like a digital chime
And kept getting stronger until it thundered:
Only poetry is that dot of calm in the din
Of ritual living -- so we named him Pushkin!
Iambic tetrameter. Pushkin. Seth. These are
Sources of inspiration for the form
Of these lines. But you, Specky, by far
Are the only reason why I write. Warm,
Gentle, a li'l nervous, passionate,
Hard-working -- you ignore mere fate...
This is what you seem to me. Keep on
Being what you can be. No one is born
All perfect. I personally think
That being static is death. Change.
Only this can improve a person's range
Of the quality of life. Static means stink --
Raw, uneaten eggs in the fridge don't hatch. They rot.
I pray, in stagnancy you're never caught.
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