I Am A Spoiled Brat, He Said In Paris France

He was just playing drunk,
his breath smelled of literary punk
and Robert Lowell’s mother skunk.

He was quick to lash out,
when he peed he would splash out.
Poetry was not what he was about.

He gathered flies around his head
long after his father’s halo was dead
and the right and wrong poetry read.

Today the black sheep of the family caterpillar
climbs McDonald’s Eiffel Tower like an art dealer
but the curly tail gives away the McSquealer.