Old man Bill,
Ever since I was a boy, there
was an old man in my life who
came and went with poisonous
tongue and fists of steel.
The whiskey and beer flowed in his veins
as tobacco ringed his soul and whiffs of it,
could be smelled throughout
our nights of hell.
Blood stained shirts were left on
the bathroom floor, for mom to pick up
and clean by hand, with ringer washer hands
and scrubbed bare knuckles, bent over in shame.
Sometimes puke was left clinging
to the toilet bowls and blood was mixed
inside, spawned from his cancerous soul, and
piss was left not in the toilet bowl.
He slammed the doors and
slurred his words cussing, wobbling
knees, and bumping into tables
and chairs trying to find his way
to another shot of whiskey or beer,
he pulled from secret places
hid under the floor.
Children slept yet woken in
beds confused by cursing tongue,
we cried in fear,
and pulled the blanket further
up over our heads, and prayed
he would not enter our room to
pick someone to play
his filthy game of abuse.
The froth flowed from the side
of his wretched lips, like a rabid dog
needing his fix of colored pills
he hid under the stinking mattress,
stained with piss,to stoned to get
to the bathroom so he slept in it
with his shit.
Mother would bow to his will and
feed him bacon, eggs and blood sausage,
the smell was rancid and made me ill
to see him feed, his gut that hung over
his belt like a fattened
walrus going to slaughter.
Not a day or night went by that
I wished for his demise that he would
find a knife stuck like a pig, while drinking
his ale at the local bar, and is found
in the alley where he belonged
among the infested diseased laden
rats that licked on his swill.
This old man scarred and pocked faced
and given the name Old Bill, was a demon
who terrorized our young lives?
and brought us nothing but pain
with the yelling of four letter words
a constant companion within our paper
thin walls of tormented shame.
He found the end of his rope when
we matched him up in a prison cell to
those who found him a child molester
no more who deserved what he got
to be choked to death for the
taking sweet innocence of the
poor children he abused without remorse.
To all the children in our world
who fear their safety and hide
in their nightmares from Old
men like Bill then find some solace
knowing that he will leave in
the end kicking and screaming as he is
dragged by his heels to the bowels of Hell
and freedom will finally be yours
and Angels will sing praises and
hallelujah from God’s throne on High
All for the Sake of the children.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.