Fard

He was coloured, as in fard,

Strutting about reciting the bard,

Showing off his super memory

Of all o’the Kings named Henry.

Smugly he did pronounce the words,

Slowly building up his herd,

Of lines lodged forever in his head:

That will stay until he’s long past dead.

And right now he’s only fourteen,

As precocious as was James Dean.

Though I hope he’s not heading for a crash

Though sometimes I want his brains to dash.

Because he is good at what he does,

Such enthusiasm is rare among us,

So it would be somewhat tragic,

If he didn’t continue his “magic.”