Strike

He’s got that mean gene

all within his crooked, sick grin.

Staggering around, swigging down gin.

I cannot bear another bruise or hit,

so I swing first, before he has his fit.

Knuckles crack bones, he moans,

body bounces on the floor. Can't take it anymore,

my exit now safe as I fly past the door. Run, run, run...soar

through nights’ dewy air.

This life that is lead just isn't fair.

Face soaked mixture of dew and tears. Heart pounding, sounding

through worst of fears.

"Help me someone!" "I need a new father!"

I scream in the night,

just can't go back to face the next fight.

At least I didn't inherit that mean gene with a crooked, sick grin,

because it's all I've ever known. (Repeat again)