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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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My name is Johnathan Payton and this whole mess started last year, went to a game in Baltimore, to watch some football, drink some beer. Was waiting for my ride to come, when a young man did approach me, he pulled out a gun and growled, “Give me all of your damn money!” He must have been high on some drug, ’cause he didn’t bother to wait, the gun went off, he shot my thigh, then rushed up close, looking to take. But when searching for my wallet I grasped onto my pocket knife, the moment he was close enough I jabbed forward at his windpipe. They say I stabbed him seven times, soon I was surrounded by cops, a local had called the police as soon as they had heard the shot. Cameras had caught the whole affair, they let me go, for self-defense, my wound was treated, healed up nice, I though it was all at an end. But then the news got hold of it, and good lord did those morons bray, when they saw we were different tints, they cried ‘racial privilege’ all day. Paraded the thug’s poor mother, put her anguish on the TV, let he call me a ‘murderer,’ when the bastard had shot me! It started a ‘social movement,’ ‘Don’t be bad, don’t stab!’they declared, my boss let me go, ‘to be safe.’ Go against the mob? He’d not dare. Worst still were the con-men preachers who claimed the real sinner was I, “The boy may have may have made a mistake, but does that mean he had to die? Painted him as a young victim, too you to know the consequence, excused the drugs, the evil ways, riled up their supporters and then they began to camp by my house, a protest, they said, for justice, they wouldn’t leave until I came out and finally,’Answered for this!’ The cops advised I not confront, and the mayor was half on their side, wanted me to apologize for having the gall to survive. And at the front, the thug’s mother, with bullhorn, shouting ‘murderer,’ this nonsense went on for a week before I went out to have words. When I went out the crowd did hush, smug smiles, they thought it was done, I looked out amongst the people and focused in on only one. I hadn’t wanted to confront her, since she had just lost her child, even if he was a felon a loss like that hurt a long while. But days of smearing and harassment, had bled away all my restraint, and though I was no evil man I also was not a damn saint. So I just paced right up to her and these were the words I said, “You’re parenting raised a scumbag, it’s your fault the man now lays dead.” CONCLUDES IN PART II.

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A Killer, Not a Murderer, Part I

My name is Johnathan Payton and this whole mess started last year, went to a game in Baltimore, to watch some football, drink some beer. Was waiting for my ride to come, when a young man did approach me, he pulled out a gun and growled, “Give me all of your damn money!” He must have been high on some drug, ’cause he didn’t bother to wait, the gun went off, he shot my thigh, then rushed up close, looking to take. But when searching for my wallet I grasped onto my pocket knife, the moment he was close enough I jabbed forward at his windpipe. They say I stabbed him seven times, soon I was surrounded by cops, a local had called the police as soon as they had heard the shot. Cameras had caught the whole affair, they let me go, for self-defense, my wound was treated, healed up nice, I though it was all at an end. But then the news got hold of it, and good lord did those morons bray, when they saw we were different tints, they cried ‘racial privilege’ all day. Paraded the thug’s poor mother, put her anguish on the TV, let he call me a ‘murderer,’ when the bastard had shot me! It started a ‘social movement,’ ‘Don’t be bad, don’t stab!’they declared, my boss let me go, ‘to be safe.’ Go against the mob? He’d not dare. Worst still were the con-men preachers who claimed the real sinner was I, “The boy may have may have made a mistake, but does that mean he had to die? Painted him as a young victim, too you to know the consequence, excused the drugs, the evil ways, riled up their supporters and then they began to camp by my house, a protest, they said, for justice, they wouldn’t leave until I came out and finally,’Answered for this!’ The cops advised I not confront, and the mayor was half on their side, wanted me to apologize for having the gall to survive. And at the front, the thug’s mother, with bullhorn, shouting ‘murderer,’ this nonsense went on for a week before I went out to have words. When I went out the crowd did hush, smug smiles, they thought it was done, I looked out amongst the people and focused in on only one. I hadn’t wanted to confront her, since she had just lost her child, even if he was a felon a loss like that hurt a long while. But days of smearing and harassment, had bled away all my restraint, and though I was no evil man I also was not a damn saint. So I just paced right up to her and these were the words I said, “You’re parenting raised a scumbag, it’s your fault the man now lays dead.” CONCLUDES IN PART II.