Young Frankie was a boy of much renown
for throwing the best parties in the town.
If asked, the revelers would always claim
they'd die before proclaiming his place lame.
The sound system was awesome, none could beat
the widescreen in the basement, it was sweet.
Though cursed with chronic acne the girls flocked
to be the first in line, his shindigs rocked!
What really drew the crowd were his basics
procured when his Mom was out for Lasiks.
His cupboard hid from view some contraband.
The finest booze selection in the land!
He'd serve a tasty Guinness seltzer mix
to those in need of merely a quick fix,
or for those of a more discerning taste
he offered them a gin and tonic chased
with vodka shots thrown back by all around
until, red faced, they all fell to the ground.
Though all his peers assumed he was just fine,
his rash behavior was a warning sign.
His parents, country clubbers, never knew
there was more to him then the very few
activities and clubs they knew about.
At some point they remembered a boy scout.
More recently they thought he joined debate.
It would explain the arguments of late.
Regardless, they could disregard the dazed
appearance they beheld, for he got A's
in all his classes; everyone outdone.
What more is needed of a perfect son?