The Joys Of A Young Boy Are Simply Cruel Poem by Mark Heathcote

The joys of a young boy are, simply cruel
They'll take living things in matchboxes school
To give you a slightly squeamish example
I too once squeezed a tiny frog into one.
Oh the silent anemic guilt I felt after when
A limb lay detached like a discarded sandal.

Worse still I once watched a young man
In a shared B&B boarding house;
Manage somehow to catch lighting fast
Half-starved, a grey, little mouse.
He put it in one. And then, stamped on it.

Oh the joys of young boys are, simply cruel
How glad am I, I never attended his school?
In his middle age, much, much later
Death …ultimately was a reprisal without shame
He poured petrol over his dear, poor sister
Set her a flame, fire to him was his elixir.
Vengeance, after all, is just a part of the game.