They say the father rose instead
and falling over, struck his head
upon the table by the bed.
His broken forehead bled and bled.
A heart attack is what they said.
The lie to each they quietly fed.
They knew the truth and where it led.
The motive they had not misread.
The Schizophreniac had pled,
throughout the years, for just a shred
of kindness from the figurehead.
His precious mother now was dead.
Because he could not stand the dread
of begging for a piece of bread,
and facing all the hate unsaid
without his mother's kindly stead,
he went where he had never tread,
had rarely thought, and always fled.
His loneliness and hurt he fed.
And creeping to the dark bedstead,
he instigated the bloodshed,
releasing all the hate inbred.
And as the bleeding spread and spread,
his joy was like a watershed.
And so the story is widespread,
and always constantly resaid.
The father he had rose instead
and falling over, struck his head
