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Sonnet 17 – The Crop From Wild Oats

The prodigal may set a course away
From what his raising guided him to be;
Yet, in the end, he finds to his dismay
A path embarked may bark, bite fatally.

What smoker now knows not the fatal chance?
What drinker had not seen the stagg’ring drunk?
What addict did not know how addicts dance
To tune of drugs; have to mere puppets sunk?

We pay for foolish habits soon or late,
And though those cunning pleasures ply their wares,
It’s best to have good sense, anticipate:
We’ll pay Old Billy for our youthful tares.

Those in the world who choose to sow wild oats
Must face the fact they’re followed by wild goats.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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