He inherited his talent from his father and his tio.
His guitar riffs were genius and his lyrics were all brio.
“Attaboy,” his parents said when he was in his crib,
crooning his own lyrics of his bottle and his bib.
Amidst all the strident voices, the hip-hop and the rap,
his was a sweet voice in the wilderness of all that other crap.
He crooned about the tortures of diaper rash and croup.
He made beauty of spitting up and love songs out of poop.
He was a child prodigy. Adults all sang along.
And that is why I’m lauding him with this little song.
I am under the weather today to say the least. I slept late, published my Guanajuato post, then slept in the hammock, came inside and slept some more. Woke up at 10:30 PM and got my first three prompts before my internet went out. I could get Forgottenman on Skype and he gave me the last prompt. I’m going to Skype him this silly poem and hope he can post it for me and find an illustration. Thank you, thank you, Forgottenman. My angel.