y son, hearken to the cry of your father.
Many seasons ago,
Your father before me;
Admonished thy father of the vicissitudes of life,
The ever changing face of the cosmos.
Life begets seasons and times,
All come for a purpose.
Sometimes laughter to make the soul merry;
And some pain beyond the solace of words,
The pangs of debauchery or the perfidy of kin.
All laughter is not the aftermath of joy.
Many friends the sport for deceit.
The hands of bloody men coerce to the waiting snare;
Come along they say for we have found the place;
Their hearts harder than the rock.
In their mouth is the bitter pill of envy;
Thy existence their displeasure.
Thy success their sorrow,
Their laugher the venom of a mamba.
My son, observe their ways and learn not their path.
However mighty they seem;
They pierce the heart of the innocent;
Purloining and maiming without mercy.
My son thy eyes shall behold many things.
The treachery of love shall leave you naked.
Many things lie beneath the surface;
Deep in the reins resides the stench of hatred.
My son, judge not the speech of a friend;
Nor the laughter of a companion,
for in them lies the arrow of gall.
My son let thy heart lead thee,
As you sojourn this mortal plane.
All you see transcends all that seem.
Before thee a cheering uproar;
Behind thee, the jeering of little minds.
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