Sunday, May 18, 2014

A QUESTIONABLE FIVE SIDED DICE



Friends,
I call you here to help me bury my living son,
To hold the basin as I wash my hands,
to remind me to forget that I ever did sire,
a woman inside a man’s face, body but soul,
I see you don’t follow;
my friends, my only son says he is a homosexual

This is worse than Arthur’s bane,
(you know, the now and future king of Camelot)
this is not even equitable to pain
it the new theory of societal insane,
a lost debate,
a terrible fate,
And my son fell for the bait
He calls it coming outta closet

I see you look confused,
Sit down,
Let me make you understand,

At his birth 22 year past,
the village palmist fearfully read of his little left palm,
aligning his little fingers she cried firm,
That my son was the last of the family-tree term,
his heart to a woman shall never affirm,
I didn’t comprehend her cold yells,
(now that I have a flashback),
Damn! What a story to tell.

This my friends is a questionable dice,
Five-sided damned circle of vice,
Biological?
Nah, doesn’t he have a penis?
Sociological?
Nah, wasn’t he the best in the districts tournaments in tennis,
Political?
Nah, I always thought he was a conservative
Psychological?
Nah, he has an impeccable societal functionality
Theological?
Didn’t he direct the synagogue's play on Sodom and Gomorrah last spring!

Friends,
Bring him back to life for he could be dead dreaming,
He is in the city parading,
Rights against discrimination, and to marriage
Holding shamelessly his so called friend’s hand up high,
---While he should be celebrating the bill on polygamy----
His face all over the TV,
He didn’t even have the courteous to have power company cut off my power first
No, no, no!
Friends,
Hold the basin as I wash my hands,
to remind me to forget that I ever did sire,
a woman inside a man’s face, body but soul,

I call to the sounds of my trumpet,
Youthful songs about family facets,
‘What’s not to love on a crumpet?’
But he heeds not to this song not of scarlet,
Warm things they come in two,
Eyes, thighs and even breasts too,
Yet friends,
You wish me to bury the hatchet,
Over my dead body!
I shall never come to terms,
That he is the last of the family-tree,
So,
Hold the basin as I wash my hands,
to remind me to forget that I ever did sire,
a woman inside a man’s face, body but soul
I did not bear a homosexual!

The end…..

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Warning; this piece is not written in discrimination of any sexual orientation in any of our societies today all over the world