I am, that was from dead womb born,
That drank the spittle of your scorn.
And from the riches of your dumps
I got my meals in moldy lumps.
That little boy, frail fly magnet,
The Devil strung him in him net
And did put strength in his weak arms…
So come I now with untold harms!!
Don’t look at me with pleading eyes,
(For no conscience within me lies)
Else I see defiance in their pleas
And give Your soul a swift release!
So you can grope at someone’s feet!?
You whine, you meow, you moo and bleat;
Once propped up shoulders sagged and weak
(But still I’ll blow out your life-wick.)
Is this not you that turned away
When for your spare coins I would pray?
Did not your Bingo nip my heels,
While you watched cackling at my peals?
Don’t grovel now – the time’s long gone,
Don’t call me Sire, don’t call me son!
Have you not heard the sages say,
“Every dog, sure, will have his day!”
Bang, bang, bang.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.