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Over Throne

They called him King when he was young and strong
And made respectful way his progress for
For he could lift and carry three times more
Than any other to his group belong

They said he'd had a gentle spirit ere
He'd gone away, then come back from the war
Upon his head a steel plate and a scar
And a distemper worse than any bear

Nor kept he his new attitude unto
Those of his sex and of similar strength
Took it to the unacceptable length
Of pouring vicious violence onto

Recipients most undeserving of:
The innocent heads of his family
His tiny wife and those bewildered three
Even tinier children, born in love

And now flung daily into fear and pain
By this new stranger sudden they among
Of whom all their small lives lauds had been sung
And promises of happy home again

Nor did improvement come with passing time
His wife learned how to even smaller seem
Neighbors got used to hearing children scream
But no man lives forever in his prime

One fateful day his choler burst a vein
And thus did he discover helplessness
He had to relearn how to rise and dress
And read and write, and even speak again

And though he harnessed all his energy
These obstacles staunchly to overcome
He ne'er again stepped out his wheelchair from
Difficult even speech would always be

Had little choice now how his life went on
Dictated by the very daughter whom
Before he'd beat and locked within her room
Now seized her new advantage fierce upon

When I met him he gazed so sadly out
Of his impris'ning flesh that chair within
Got up the will a sentence to begin
'Twere interrupted by a daughter's shout

He dared not reach or ask for anything
Except to see it cas'ually removed
In silence and humility behooved
Him to accept whete'er she chose to bring

And brought him all the things the doctors had
Cautioned would tend to bring early demise
To him she had so long learned to despise
From whom such pain so oft exper'ienced had

O ye whose aggravations ye unload
And violence by your large hands allow
On those subordinate unto you now
Think early of the torments it might bode

Your own aged enfeebled future for
If love is not enough to make you see
How uncompassionate your actions be
That every decent person you abhor

For he who cultivates no present love
No admiration and no loyalty
From those whom his future caretakers be
Will reap small benefit small caring of


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