Poem for the Father of Invention

 

I met an inventor on the Route 18 to

The town of the Gould’s, a few days after gramps

Left us for an Irish afterlife,

Filled with crescent moon and dark ale of

Which he had never a chance to taste in life.

 

This old fellah was rallying against the forces of

Home Hardware in St. Jacob’s, On 

And a Wal-Mart in Mississauga,

(He had misspelled it as Missisuga)

Even looked a bit like Mick in the eyes,

Those blue half-cataract looking glaze.

Figuring he was lonely, I liked him right away

You can always count on the solitary old guy to have a good yarn or two.

A story.

 

The poster read:

First in the World

Book of Inventions

7th Son Works Vol. II

Book that will break the camel’s back

 

Then listed three of his

Copy written ideas these bastards had taken

With “no credit”

One was a “Dual Toilet Brush”.

There was a “Tape Measure & Magnifying Lens”.

A “Paint Tray for Ladder”.

“All of these inventions”

He says

“Are mine

They stole them.”

 

All I wants is the credit.

His wife had left.

But he wasn’t particularly bitter,

Because it gave him time to

Pick his fights.

 

 

 

 

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