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May 2014
“Help, help!”
Cried a boy in the wings,
A broken heart cannot be fixed,
He pleases he sings.
But he’s left without a clue,
A reason why he’s next to go,
His father takes out his whip,
The boy already knows.
He takes a gander at the long, black whip,
Struggling to make away,
But he’s trapped in his fear and mental agony,
In his father’s den, he stays.
On the count of one,
He stares at him with interrogating eyes,
On the count of two,
He says his last goodbyes,
On the count of three,
He’s no longer here,
His soul peacefully rests with God,
As he sheds one last tear.
Shari Forman
Written by
Shari Forman  New York
(New York)   
607
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