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About This Poem
A Man Called Pain
Born beneath an old Elm tree, nourished from the teats of a Jackal, sired by the Devil himself.
He knew who he was.
He was pain.
Where he walked, he inflicted the same.
Bringing forth residual shame, was his favorite game.
This man named Pain, with worldwide fame.
Invisible to most, but felt by us all.
As when your skin does crawl.
His only intent, was to make love fall.
From behind his invisible wall.
The Demons do call.
For one and all.
So when you hear that man's name.
It's no accidental, bad luck game.
He turns health into lame.
The Devil and son are the same.
This man called Pain.
SHM
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