Mama baked me French bread
while my Daddy beat my ***.
My buttocks throbbed red
and the tears were a river
flooding as if I was Noah,
an ark of my pain never floating.

I savored that French bread
and the crunch of the crust
that crumbled tiny bits to the carpet.
It made my tummy full and rumbling with gurgles
as if it taught me to use a bow and arrow
to shoot my Daddy right in the forehead.

Someday I'll move to France, maybe England.
I'll learn the way of living there
so that I'll let go of the pain marked on my ***
and to fed on homemade French bread
for my Mama's dead and my satisfaction hungry
and Daddy shoots me down with ******* and a gun.