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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 in your 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 so 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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