What Was Sown

That brute, Igor Wilhelm, got older each day

while sitting alone on his porch,

his once-strapping shoulders, a wilting display,

his words finding no one to scorch.

Way back in the day, he directed his brood

by yelling and swinging a belt,

those caught in his path all subject to his mood.

He’d brand them each day with a welt.

One night he fell down and called Junior for aid,

which drained the last charge from his phone.

His grown son decided it’s time that he paid,

and left him, to languish, alone.

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