Nepotism.

Since my birth they've said I have his eyes; now I sharecrop the few arid plots of splintery Ground beneath the skull, bearing the plow Rubbed smooth by the dark hands of wintry men, Dead now, sagaless. The triangle is beat: We all mop our necks and shuffle in, Gracelessly edging near the ultimate seat; then The nails come out, the hammer, the boards to pin Us (by the shirt) firmly to the wall. Dicas! Extraordinary. My feet are in tongue & Groove, roughly sliding on. The call Of nuns and hounds slip over the sand, Their voices thin, their bodies stiff as tulip Wood. With tact I thank God my eyes Are his, my foot, my hand, my gait, my lip And crop my margins to these legacies.