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Tuesday, January 11, 2011



My brother doesn’t write poetry.
All he does is worry
about his business.
And his money.

And make life gruff
for all of us he loves
His children, his wife
My children, and me.

Tho’ he’s not too difficult
For buried there deep
beneath  a  well–hidden soul
and his barnacles galore                                                     

is a kind-hearted man
who will come to your rescue
provided you ask
more than ten days before.

He’ll loan you a quid
Or even a few hundred
And for the kids
It need never come back

The help  is free,
Slow to emerge
And in need of checking,
But there, always there.

Written in 2002

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