Discipline In Childhood Poem by James McLain

Soap as lard long cooking in that well
of good intentions.
Warmer then it growing hotter in the oven,
was it dutch,
or that small bleeding 'pot' my rump a roast.
With out the jelly,
spread far and wide across my thin white bread.

Each tug of war, laid hope without a rope
like winds that only banded snakes,
each hurricane would drive out from the ditch.
Living underneath my sodden creaking bed.
While one small head and smaller feet
are pulled apart untill each bone it squeaks,
my 'God' is that a mouse inside the house, 'again'.
Moaning in the wind please make it stop, my name.