Poor Ciral, with his aforementioned needs,
reverted to the outlet of his youth.
Don’t ask me to describe the hidden deeds.
As much as possible, let’s keep this couth.
He tried to put his energy to use
until some clear and definite event
might happen that would be a good excuse
to go back to his lover with consent.
His trade, I said, before he made this move
would sometimes take him near the city’s edge.
With methods he had learned and could improve,
an offshoot of the business made its fledge.
His sister, who had lived under the wing,
had suffered from a lack of exercise.
Now forced to help her brother do his thing,
the girl took on a much more healthy guise.
The mother kept the house, such as it were,
all by herself, and once when she was bored
she found a box that interested her.
Inside it was a literary hoard.
©2010 Louis A. Merrimac
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