A crimson pool where sorrow flounders,
Conveys a truth, which never counters.
To **** a child is a messy business,
A fit of rage, a sign of weakness.

From all life’s lessons, you haven't learned?
That life is precious and time hard earned.
A wake, a funeral, a mournful day,
There’s one less child to run and play.

That fallow soul that plants a seed,
Of life’s destruction, a wicked creed.
I say to you, who dare not talk,
Time is wasting, it’s eleven o’clock.