Ingrate Poem by Francie Lynch

I bought a ticket
For a friend;
Do I really
Want him to win.
Is this what one
Calls a sin?
Venial or Mortal.

Let's crank it up a notch.
Let's involve the cops,
Or the color of your skin.
Is this what one
Calls sin?

Let's raise the ante.
Say you're near the body
Lying on the floor,
The evidence is clear,
You're the next of kin.
Is this what one
Calls sin?

Wherein is the sin?

My friend kept all the winnings.
Cops are on the take.
Our brother's in the gutter,
Our confession came too late.
Our sins are mere mistakes:
At worst call me ingrate.