Home before 8 he’d say,
dinner on the table,
but the clock struck 
quarter past my patience,
and the milk he’d sought out
had curdled,
sister and I
will have burnt toast tomorrow.
But no loss for he,
his thirst had been quenched,
feasting on white lies 
and mother’s restless sighs.

An appetite fit for a king he’d say,
but so far could he fall 
from those kingdom castle steps.

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