Yes, I am Bercu
Bercu I am.
I am the man they call Bercu,
I am.
A devilish, dervishly, germ of a man.
I will break into your castle any way that I can.
Because I'm a Bercu and
we Bercu's we can.
Ask Stan. Stan or his babies.
Stan the Man had the rabies.
Now, I live the sparce legacy of son of Stan
My daddy loved happy and if you weren't happy
he'd run far away from you as fast as he can.
Couldn't get my man striped feathers from father
who was this man to have married my mother?
My dad, yes, he was a Bercu named Stan.
In the old country, they drank, smoked and made sour mash under the table.
busy beavers makin their hay while they were able.
In the dead heat of War in the nineteen forties
and more.
Grandma and Grandpa raised two kids named Stan and flo.
With American names, here they'd be safe and secure
In America
They are lost to me now
Daddy's long dead and my Auntie's demure
and
on meds to keep her mind fertile
She'll be 200 years old in about a hundred and four years.
Grandma must have given birth to a turtle....
Buddy Bee Anthony
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-men-and-tortoises/
