The Father
Some saw him as a gifted author
Others aware but didn't bear to bother
He only cared to be there unlike his father
At first it was the worst he started to Pother
Even the air wasn't fair
For the Young scholar
He didn't dare lift a hair
As she took away his toddler
Her anti social dispair
Desperately needed a doctor
The pain he sweared
Was hell as the degrees increase much hotter
He was tired like a spare
But kept his head above water
They said on contraire
As they began to uneven the totter
He was there to declare
Yet their sins entered pins like a cotter
Wounded impaired
Held together with solder
The two were a pair
Father and son, no daughter
Indeed its not rare
That the sick pick who to slaughter
Ill leave it right there
With the thoughts caught left to wonder
Copyright © Peter Baldwin | Year Posted 2021
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