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.