It is not my fault, stamen,
your thumbs are ashen
and you smoke your plants
instead of nurturing them.

You splayed your seeds
spawned responsibility,
and left us for your ocean
without an ounce of water.

Enjoy your maiden voyage
with your scores of whores,
float your arboretum, fill it
with illegitimate seedlings.

We're cast ashore, a forest
of plants nobody watered.
But I'd rather wither it out,
than admit that he's my father.