The Fist was his Tool
His Heart was a stone
He Dresses like a Clown
And Drank it all down.
He knocked on the doors, to slam his a plenty
He Threatened Children
He Threatened Women
He cowered underground
He slept in the Closet
With no Self Concept
He buried his feelings
And Drinks it all down
He Stinks to high heaven
and Wet His Own Bed
The sofa a sleeping
to cover the smell,
he hides underneath
a burial ground,
no one home inside this empty hound.
The Death treats were plenty
The sound of insane
his shame was a many,
so he Drank it all down.
The door was his vessel
one of contempt
to hide his affliction, aggression he vent
women his subject as his mother before
to beat into submission
he delivers the blows.
With a smile on his face and his fist raised high
he checks for bruises as he walks on by
His confidence undermined, as he draws fear, from the masculine sex
he will not appear
Used up, he accept his perilous plight
A filthy coward, and a fright
to see
just how low to sink, humanity
so he drinks to cover
and shifts the blame
His Mother His Sister, His Neighbor
His friends, His all
a Drunken Flame.
to all the women who have died from the rage
of The Violent Alcoholics.
