Sad But Ture
He'd open up the front door, and on the
by Ruth warren
couch I'd cringe;
for I knew that my Dad, had once again,
been on a drinking binge.
Who would be the chosen one, to
receive one of his beatings;
I'd close my eyes and pray to God,
'Please let him leave us sleeping'.
But he'd always beat up someone, either
me, my brother's or Mom;
for when my Dad was drunk there was,
a storm before the calm.
I can still hear him yelling, 'Woman,
get your' lazy butt in here';
and my Mom would always comply to him,
I surmise mostly out of fear.
I would rather have taken the beatings,
for they didn't hurt that bad;
what hurt me more than anything, was
to see my Mother so sad.
It was always the same, each and every
night, when my Dad would come home drunk;
sometimes I'd sleep in the bushes, or
in our old pick-up truck.
He never had a job, nor ever worked a
day in his life;
I can still remember hearing my Mother,
weeping softly into the night.
To go to bed hungry was one thing, but
to know your eight children as well;
had no food in their rumbling tummies,
to Mom that was worse than Hell.
What money my Dad did managed to make,
doing odd jobs here and there;
was always spent on alchohol, our
cabinets' were always bare.
My Mom did her best to feed us,
welfare helped us here and there;
then I got a job and I helped Mom,
and we weren't in such despair.
I look back on my childhood, it was
tough yet it made me strong;
Dad died from drinking rubbing alchohol,
it was all he could get his hands on.