Pop Ya Old Dustmop

The mad years growing up with you and your infinite imagination, freethinker, storyteller, flatterer, stupors of barbituates and prune juice and frowns we would imitate with glee, master of answering a question with a question, slippery character, allowing freedoms that verged into license, ah, your Russian melodramas left us unmoved, extravagant professions of love more for your sake than for our own.

Traveled so young, from violence of Europe to midwest melting pot, you were a fighter when the gangs came around, got your nose flattened and flattened a few yourself, went swimming in January with fellow polar bear clubbers, a foolish life of doing not so much after big burnout in Acme manufactory, always reading and we never knew what you really thought or felt about anything, ah, pop you old dustmop, you went on and on how I would miss you greatly after you died, and I do miss you, tho not with the wailings you would prefer.

I gave your eulogy and my brothers cried, the rabbi took a copy, I wrote it for revenge, you would have approved.