Some mother's son, an ascetic then eruptive,
spills out into traffic, hair stood on end.
Paroxysmal tongue, wild out of wit.
Though he sees luck that I'm pushing,
I'm pushing for sport,
he can't possibly understand,
that I don't understand then I push.
Some mother's son, some quiet worry was enough.
I should not have pushed,
he should have been spared.
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