White Picket Fence.
David S Nicholson AKA AxeMoose
June 24, 2010
A rum and cola in my left hand, a barbecue fork in the other hand.
Checking the steaks and looking to see if the lawn is just right.
The latest jingle for my favorite car company in my head.
Down the street oh so perfectly groomed is a man beating his son half to death.
His wife sits in front of the TV in a prescription drug induced stupor.
Ah yes all is right with my little world and I can’t see past my white picket fence.
One of the boys calls me on the cell about our little trip this weekend.
We intend to spend a little money on the girls that hang out in the cat club.
No one gets hurt, that is if the wives don’t find out.
The woman on TV said they are exploited down there, but we don’t think so.
After all they hide the browses and the needle tracks well with makeup.
Then we will retreat to our perfect homes safe behind our white picket fences.
My kid is listening to some guy named Manson and dressing dark.
I chuckle and remember the days I spent listening to Alice Cooper.
He chats all night to his dark friends and talks about death.
I don’t listen, as I have more important things to think about.
After all, my job has a lot of responsibility and I can’t turn my back on that.
Oh how nice the flowers grow threw my white picket fence.
I see on the news that the boy down the street is dead and his dad is in custody.
What a shock me and the wife tell each other then we say, "you never really know people".
My sonny boy is late coming home, but he is most of the time so I give it no though.
I plan in my head for the next week end with the boys, and smile to the wife and tell her I love her.
A cop comes to the door and tells us that our son and his friends have taken their lives.
Now my perfect law is not so green and my white picket fence seems to need painting.