It is possible that this poem will be redone for iambic pentameter or
otherwise if melody is needed, but it is likely that the rawness will be
(She shrinks away.)
Don't lick your lips like that at me.
(Old Lady is scared by the Homie.)
He's too young to be yelled at!
(Such a fragile little body, you are a bad mother.)
She's not that kind of girl, but you don't care.
(She'll shake and shiver for weeks thinking of him, afterwards.)
He's hurt, but they all cluster around her.
(He was too good for you, but then again, they all are.)
They beat him to a bloody pulp.
(He should have been a man, played more sports, but he didn't have a chance.)
And her son died in a tragic war, honoured.
(Honoured by the same country that put his death on prime-time.)
He can't sleep, for his future hangs from a single test.
(You should have studied harder! Kids these days have it easy! Old lies.)
And nobody wants to play with him.
(The most broken they can make him feel.)
They tell her her breasts are too small, and her eyes bland.
(Only to hold her farther back.)
Cripples all, they sleep as family on the same bus.
Never comforted by their similar stories,