Oh for the lackluster spankings of my youth for which no switch was
waiting for me yet ‘twas I who pluct it from the tree to swiftly gain approval
from my father’s ever vigilance to teach me my place in life.
And tho the sting of nettles was not sweeter than the sound of my own tears
trickling down my cheek as I layeth in bed sobbing of my wretched self
pondering not to know my fate as adulthood lie just beyond my grasp.
Then I would be taught again and again but nay I never learned and now
I sit upon this sheetless cot in a cell as barren as my mother after birth of
her only child, the one who put her husband to his early grave.