Gonzo Senior sired three sons.
At close of day, his work all done,
He sat in a large rheumy chair,
And breathed his suspicions on the air.
Gonzo One, ill at ease from birth,
Was grim and surly, lacking mirth.
He learned quite young to vent his hate
On the feeble and unfortunate.
Gonzo Two, a gentle giant,
Strove in life to be compliant
With the views of other men.
Never to let his mind open.
Gonzo Three, born out of time,
Talked in riddles and in rhyme.
He sat in class, all fingers crossed:
Placed a bet with life and lost.
The Gonzos hum a strident tune
That brawls and bickers with the moon.
Upon the floor some blood was let,
But not one tear of regret.
© 2016 Nemo
Nemo is a poet from Thanet who writes poetry to improve his mental health.