Wise old crickets on the wall

Those who don’t like you – once you’re gone – will tell
Tales of you, sum you up; they’ll have their innings.
“Broken”, if that cliché is still around,
Though bright and charming now and then, they’ll grant,
Wise heads a-wag; sad case, an awful waste.
Oh and of course he drank too much you know.
That Commie thing; extreme; kind of a nut,
Really. Though bright and charming now and then.
“I blame the mother.”
— “Do you? I the father —
Thou misogyne.” This last subvocalized.
Both seek someone to blame, along with you.
And sure, there’s lots of blame to go around,
And you’ve your share, like everybody else.
The blamer seldom looks to blame himself,
Or claim his own blame due, unless neurotic
As you are. Blame: the water you’ve swum in
Since self-awareness dawned. You tried to shed it;
That never works, of course; one’s lot in life
Foredoomed, as the ancients knew; the blame and shame
Twin siblings, paired jaws ineluctable;
Oedipus never meant to kill his daddy,
Or bed his mommy; but the unpitying Fates
Had different plans. Not altogether harsh,
They gave him Sophocles to sing his song.
But as for you: you’ll have to sing your own.

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