Father to Son

If within us there’s a gene for rhyming,
And one, perhaps, for a subtle timing,
A third that bends to philosophical,
A fourth that tends to metaphorical,
A fifth that gives the measured line,
And all together intertwine,
Then we are clothes of a similar cloth,
The same good stirring of the same warm broth,
A sharing of letters, a similé,
Spelled out forever in our DNA.