Tom was neither a scholar, nor a saint,
he liked to drink, he loved his kids, his wife,
even his parents, he worked hard to paint,
create the dream without any constraint,
as for friends, they came and went, such is life.
Tom was neither a scholar, nor a saint.
He welcomed friends with whom he could acquaint
on the measure of his life without strife.
Life was good, he thought, he worked hard to paint
in colors others would accept, to taint
creativity, he felt, meant the knife.
Sober, he'd become both scholar and saint.
Tom saw past the lies, a life of restraint,
as for his sons, who played drums and fife,
nothing was better, he worked hard to paint.
Difficulties? He lived without complaint,
as for his wife, Happy, her days were rife,
riddled by love, she, too, worked hard to paint,
diminished returns of scholar and saint.
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