Quartet.

I’d like to teach the world to sing,
In perfect harmony, a song that will bring,
A tear to the eye, a choke to the throat,
Drown you deep in a sorrowful moat.
It’s a ditty about four kids in a crew,
Included each other in everything they’d do.

Dodge was the oldest and wasn’t allowed,
Out of his yard like a pit bull that growled.
Until one day his mom said it’s cool,
He didn’t have to come home right after school.
He ran like the wind and scored with the girls,
Too much southern comfort made him hurl.
On hillside’s steps he’d make out with some broad
He told her he loved her, so on his neck she gnawed,
Hickies were abundant and so were the fights,
He’d have with anybody that disrespected his rights.
And so it went, this life that he lead,
Until one night some guy from Jersey damaged his head,
Hit him with a cop barricade, drunk after the Eagles,
Strangers forever, now sudden enemies like foxes and beagles.
A month long coma, coupled with a stroke,
Now makes Dodge a slightly different looking bloke.
A sag to his face, but he still has that smile,
I haven’t seen or talked to him in a while.
A husband with kids, domesticated life,
Has a celebrated past like the drum and fife.

Another was a kid, who grew up on Smick,
Used to have a flattop maintained with wax stick.
He was the youngest and the newest recruit,
Moved down from Pennsdale, dishonest to boot.
He told some tales, of this he never grew out,
He’d tell us about the brand new bike his grandma threw out.
And the wiffle balls and countless ice cream sandwiches,
If he ate pizza for dinner he’d tell you he had manwiches.
Lying just to lie, we never understood it.
The fish tales couldn’t get any worse, really, could it?
Yeah it did, as he got older the treachery intensified,
Spewing mistruths about money and funds that were diversified,
His Pinocchio promises even got a guy locked up,
Writing bad checks. Finally, I think a girl was knocked up.
We always told him people liked him regardless,
He didn’t have to fabricate, Why did he lie? Take a hard guess,
His dad was a bum, nothing to be proud of there,
Mom dated a black dude— that he didn’t wish to share.
Always trying to hide a secret, of which he was ashamed,
The Lyingest Liar there ever was. His claim to fame.
It’s a shame, ‘cause to me he was a little brother,
Always laughing, ripping on people one after the other.
This was who he was, truly a funny dude,
Cracking up at something he found funny made laughs run like crude.
I’m sure he’s still like that to a certain degree,
Last I heard he’s a guy with a family.
Devoid of an epiphany.

Now Timmy, he’d give it to you straight,
If he thought you were fat, he’d ask your weight.
Almost as fast as Dodge, but no honeys to speak of,
His love life was grounded, perhaps like a weak dove.
But he did get a girl or two or three,
Used to rummage The Turtle for softballs, sell them back to the bar league for a fee.
Enjoyed running into the night like a mischievous mustang,
Threw smoke bombs and crab apples. Windows bust. Bang!
One day he just moved, out to the state of Buckeye.
His pop got a new job. His mantra was fuck! why?
Ten hours in a car his family traversed to relocate,
Cincinnati was the pot Timmy stewed in, main ingredient was hate.
He couldn’t stand it, everyone was a dork,
He felt he didn’t belong, he might as well have been Mork.
But we kept in touch, Philly he missed,
That’s what he wrote in his letters to me. Pissed.
We’d see him twice a year. In the summer and Christmas,
Of course, you know we got into some mischief,
Clipping colored lights and throwing anything throwable,
We laughed liked zooted hyenas. The quintessence of mobile.
But this couldn’t last forever; he had to go back,
The thought of returning to Cinci stained his mood black.
He’d leave. Soon things would return to normal,
Until I got a call at school, my mom was real formal,
Timmy crashed his car and ended his life,
He hit another car, in it a guy and his wife.
But they walked away, Timmy stayed right there,
Dead like a lion before having a chance to grow his mare.

And then there’s me, the completion of the quartet,
Gettin' all glassy-eyed over a perfect childhood
infants with Alzheimer’s couldn’t forget.