The three of them are sitting there,
Faces pale in the sterile light;
The father's face is livid and red,
The mother's pale with certain dread
While their eight-year-old son stares at his shoes.
Who was the one who started the fire last night?
Perhaps the father--his foul breath tells
That he was drinking cans of beer
But then again, the mother is pale
Did she kindle the fire with love grown stale?
Behind our one-way shield, they cannot hear
As we the officers debate the case.
Who will be the one to take the fall?
Both mother and father both seem quite upset;
Either one could have struck the spark
That tore their homes and lives apart
But which one had done the crime?
Neither one of them would dare admit.
"The child did it," I said with a frown.
"Can't you see he wants to die?
An ordinary child would fear
If he or his parents were brought in here
But this one doesn't even stop to cry."
My fellow officers shot me glares
But my intuition was proven right
A psychologist verified my hunch
The little kid had seen too much
And tried to end it all with fire that night.
What a terrible world this is
When we must suspect the kids.