I do; my dad.
There's no doubt that I'm his lad.
His left knee and mine are weak.
Phone us up and let us speak
to hear how similar we are;
my brush bristles with his tar.
My sweat smells the same as his;
a tang of graft and fear that is
both helical and hand-me-down,
but I'm not fit to wear the crown:
he took stock at twenty-three,
I'm fifty; no one walks like me.