Sunday, January 17, 2016

7694. THE BUTCHER'S SON

THE BUTCHER'S SON
The guy with that cleaver he was my father,
killing and maiming any fresh animal in his
path. Gross, all, now as I look back. He'd serve
us anything at night. Dog legs, leftover gizzards
and grizzle from something  -  I never even wanted
to know. He'd force us to eat it all, or swore he'd take
off a finger, one of ours, if we didn't. He held that
cleaver like a chalice, all holy and all the time.
What can you do with a crazy man like that?
My mother? Who knew? Maybe chained in the
basement, or maybe on her we'd already dined.
This life's a real mess if it gets you wrong : some
people have millions of dollars and fancy houses
and cars. I get stuck with this father, like as mad
as if he was from Mars. Eat up now, eat.

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