Description
Young Milton.
You were such a vibrant, abrashed boy.
Full of vigor and your father’s liquor.
You could vape with the best of them, both in jest and on winter’s corner.
Selling pop rocks and poetic name-calling, your voice knew no discipline.
Both gone too soon and soonly gone; you could not hold your schnapps.
Oh young Milton. Milty. M-banga.
Your cheeks will surely be pinched by the red king himself.
A punishment fit for a heir.
Your throne of deviance will defy those who ever questioned your time on Earth.
We all knew you were meant for bigger and better things.
A life better spent in the next realm, despite whatever arguement your liver presented in the court of bad decisions.
To pour one out is to enrich the soil of your slumber and nourish your soul’s happy hour.
Cheers Milton.