Sib

As he planned no less than domination by cross dressing,
you planted seeds for germination of cress in lessons.

When he styled himself the player to spread the word
in peace talks, you played with the pieces of your Girl’s

World Talking Styling Head. As he grappled and scrapped in
the Garden of Ideas, you scrumped apples in the farm by Ikea.

When he challenged the notion of ersatz-eclectic spirit, you
charged your Nokia through your dad’s electric socket.

With both your parents dead, the will – on the wall – said:
You cop the lot. And he gets sod all. You asked as to why.

I gave it a shot: “You’re a good person; your brother’s not.”