My father, he tried
I saw it myself
But the villagers screamed
And things fell from the shelf
The portrait of my mother
Protected in glass
Shattered on the floor—
I should have known it wouldn’t last
The shards on the floor
Are reflecting my fear
The angry faces
Are everywhere
My father looks calm
But inside he’s shaking
The villagers push—
The whole building is quaking
They get a hold
Of his unkempt hair
The result of a hundred nights
Sitting right there
The desk is a mess
The treaties half wrote
The things he’s done for them—
But they will never be note
The years of peace he has brought them
Only seem to fuel their hate
As if only by blood and murder
Could their hungers be sate
The lifetime of peace
Only he could guarantee
The foreigners were so jealous—
But not of he
For who could be jealous
Of a target to cast pain?
No one in the histories
Would ever be named
The great man that is my father
For all that he has done
Will not be looked back upon in happiness—
Will only be shunned
The villagers pull him
Up from his seat
They pull him straight down
To Lillian’s Creek
They push him in
And hold down his head
At least he feels no pain,
For now he is dead.
