The Death Of A Poet

When I was just a lad of ten,
My father said to me:
"Engineers make the finest men,
And that's what you must be."

"But dad," said I, in boyish tear,
"I have no intellect;
Competition makes me fear,
They'll string my scrawny neck!"

"Aw, c'mon son, you ain't the guy,
To chicken out this way;
Just take my word, and don't ask why;
Or you'll regret someday."

Many years have since passed by,
And graduation's near;
You soon will see a poet die,
And laud an engineer.

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