The elder blossom sees the worm,
Seizes a day and smells the breeze
And moves along. It can't go far.
The Younger Brothers see the cache
And hope it proves they chose the path
That Momma wanted: Nouveau Chic.
The middle sex is villages
And towns along a scruffy march.
They live with Hope. She cheats on them.
These demarcations, falsehoods, if
You get my drift, blur at the end
Of eras, pending scholarship
And bibliographies. Athwart
the elder, berries mark their place
With footnotes, colorful, but dry.
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