Mother Of The Grave Poem by CHRISTOPHER MUDIENYI

To Dave, yourself, you gave,
You mother of the grave,
Was that really brave?
Can you still ask us for a way to pave?
Why wouldn't you this situation stave?
Or was there nothing in it for you to save?
Do you, motherhood, still crave?
And to see a child grow, still yearn?
Do you expect any more respect to earn?
You know, you need to pay as you earn,
But what you were to pay you burnt, nothing to earn,
In the pan you did burn, with no intended pun,
The bridges of mortality you did slash and burn,
The sanctity of humanity you did crash and churn,
We cannot to your smashing side turn,
We turn about turn with nothing to learn,
Because in the cold empty oven there is no bun,
A bun that would bake and be a bunny bun,
But look at how you cocked the smashing gun?
This gun that scattered what was to ultimately churn,
The use of this gunning gun to gun we definitively ban,
Because we want it to eventually grow into a fine man,
A man who will crawl and walk and finally run,
Your black heart, its hide we need to tan,
Turn and tan as possibly as we really can,
Lest you turn another crispy bun and burn.