That young boy without a name I`d know his face. In
this city the kid`s my favorite. I`ve seen him. I see him every
day. Seen him run outside looking for a place to hide from his
father, the kid half naked and said to myself "O, what`s the
matter here?" I`m tired of the excuses everbody uses, he`s their
kid I stay out of it, but who gave you the right to do this?
We live on Morgan Street; just ten feet between and his
mother, I never see her, but her screams and cussing, I hear them
every day. Threats like: "If you don`t mind I will beat on your
behind,""Slap you, slap you silly." made me say, "O, what`s the
matter here?" I`m tired of the excuses everybody uses, he`s your
kid, do as you see fit, but get this through that I don`t approve
of what you did to you own flesh and blood.
"If you don`t sit on this chair straight I`ll take this
belt from around my waist and don`t think that I won`t use it!"
Answer me and take your time, what could be the awful
crime he could do at such young an age? If I`m the only witness
to your madness offer me some words to balance out what I see and
what I hear. All these cold and rude things that you do I suppose
you do because he belongs to you and instead of love, the feel of
warmth you`ve given him these cuts and sores won`t heal with time or
age.
I want to say "What`s the Matter here?" But I don`t dare say.
