The Bastard’s Lot

The room is always hot,
Filled with the pungent smell of prostitutes’ opened legs.
Stupid world. How can my father’s farm become a brothel?
“Nothing is worth gold, my son.
“Gold can only be gotten by hard work.”
Blah, blah, blah.
Cigarette smoke-filled rooms.
This must be a curse on my religious mother’s grave.
After all, she’s buried out back;
Her grave is a fertile hemp farm.
My father taught me well: corn or weed, I remain a farmer.
Curse me all you wish, a bastard is always the black sheep.
Alas, a man must also eat.
The dead are buried; I’d leave as an eagle does,
Soaring and cursing every single one who judges me.