Two sons
Is the minimal amount of sons
You ought to have.
Any less and youʼre asking
For your queer to be sent to hell.
The more the better you know.
Three and over is like a pass
Straight through the overpass
Of ice-stinging water
That peels back your isolate sin.
You ought to know:
Only your many sons
Have what it takes
To end the suffering
Of each brotherly other.
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