Papa was a manic man who preached like a misshapen Saint every other day – no priest, no preacher, in an official instance, anyhow
See, Papa drank akin to crazy
On setting a foot outta that worn ‘n sweat-ridden bed baptised by urine time again, he liquored himself square to the bone like only he could, shouldn’t though
Mama knew no better, he scared the life right from her, he did indeed
These Princess eyes once upon a far greater time – they had dated ‘n danced into the night of day at her end of year all of those precious decades ago, so they promise ‘n swear
Could be crossing their ringless fingers at deceitful will
Shoulda been called end of life, really, she now twisted ‘n frozen atop these lonesome wits, frightened to a point of searching for her makeshift hiding place come the terrific turn of his particular a.m. – angry ‘n typically mean, with another misguided beer stain to bend on over ‘n clean on up
She appeared to have been his undeserved Angel, wings thinning ’til the inevitable end – when Angels become Demons