Jack and Jill went up the hill,
got drunk and did each other.
But, “Oh, no, Jack,” said Jill.
“’Twas against my will.
‘Tis all your fault I’ll soon be a mother.”
He couldn’t escape
‘cause she lied and cried, “Rape!”
right in front of his daddy, the preacher.
So Jack did the right thing
and purchased a ring
with the proceeds from pawning his future.
The baby was born
On a cold winter’s morn,
but he wasn’t there to greet her.
Called back to his corps
to finish his tour,
‘twould be six months before he would meet her.
In the meantime, his buddies
all warned him, “That dog? She’s
a bitch! She’s done every guy on base.”
But his doubts that the wee child
might not be his subsided
the moment he first saw her sweet face.
Jack loved his dear girl
more than the world,
but the bitch that had birthed her forbade him
to hold her, or hug her,
or tell her he loved her,
and so, the tot became ‘fraid of him.
He was miserable, and yet
drinking helped him forget
that they’d never once loved one another.
So occasionally then,
they go at it again,
and one night, the bitch birthed a brother.
It all was just dandy
‘til baby’s Doc said, “He
was born with a hole in his heart.
That’s why he’s so blue,
but there’s naught we can do.”
So Jack purchased a cemetery plot.
He buried his boy
with his boy’s favorite toy,
then promptly went home and got plastered.
While out of his head,
the bitch lured him to bed.
Nine months later: another disaster.
Of course, later she claimed
he’d raped her again.
So, to pay for his heinous crime
he barely made rent
‘cause the bulk of it went
“to her mother.” In the meantime,
the bitch bullied his daughter,
and finally taught her
she had nothing to offer the world.
It tore Jack in two,
but what could he do?
Helpless himself, he couldn’t help his girl.
By the time she turned seven,
all Jack’s hopes for heaven
were dead. The bitch? He’d grown to hate her.
So, he drank, and he drank
to keep mind and heart blank
‘til his body died forty years later.
