It was ten to five
Looked at his father’s new wife
Grabbed the knife
Soon was the time for dining
Still madly yearning
To become at least something
Approved by his father’s new wife
A new wife meant a newer strife
Yet he was ready to strive
It was now five to five
Stopped playing with the knife
After playing with the life
Of the brown thing called rye bread
Before he reduced it to a sliced dead
With heavy thoughts in his head