You send so many words for him,
like you could weave armor from them.
All those wasted letters meshed like chainmail, but
my apathy is a stiletto.
A weapon invented in Dad's homeland,
it slips between excuses.
Let me puncture the lungs of his obfuscations:
Did he tell you of the many humiliations
he bestowed upon my youth?
Did he tell you of the terrors
of screaming voices and shattering plates?
Does he beat his breast and bemoan his fate,
and wonder aloud at his children's absence?
Until the Old Stallion
decides he has enough cogliones
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