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That young boy without a name I'd know his face. In
this city the kid's my favorite. I've seen him. I see him every
day. Seen him run outside looking for a place to hide from his
father, the kid half naked and said to myself "O, what's the
matter here?" I'm tired of the excuses everbody uses, he's their
kid I stay out of it, but who gave you the right to do this?
We live on Morgan Street; just ten feet between and his
mother, I never see her, but her screams and cussing, I hear them
every day. Threats like: "If you don't mind I will beat on your
behind,""Slap you, slap you silly." made me say, "O, what's the
matter here?" I'm tired of the excuses everybody uses, he's your
kid, do as you see fit, but get this through that I don't approve
of what you did to you own flesh and blood.
"If you don't sit on this chair straight I'll take this
belt from around my waist and don't think that I won't use it!"
Answer me and take your time, what could be the awful
crime he could do at such young an age? If I'm the only witness
to your madness offer me some words to balance out what I see and
what I hear. All these cold and rude things that you do I suppose
you do because he belongs to you and instead of love, the feel of
warmth you've given him these cuts and sores won't heal with time or
age.
I want to say "What's the Matter here?" But I don't dare say.
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