I sit here on death row for I have killed
Two children — actually three by some counts.
To call them up in perfect memory
Is something I am not able to do.
I didn’t think of what they left behind
When I dispatched them one by one. But wait:
There was the first one, six years old, a boy
Walking alone. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed
Perfect American boy. And like a dog,
I snapped. His smiles were stopped. His laughs were choked.
He couldn’t laugh no more. He had a dad
And mom who waited very long to have
Him. He loved music, arts, and crafts, and one
Of his creations was a little house
Of clay. Now he will not make anything.
I can’t recall his name. The next one, then,
I think she was a perfect blonde-haired girl.
There is a common theme, I think. It was
When she was walking to the candy shop.
I just dispatched the blonde-haired blue-eyed boy
Two hours ago. Dressed in blue clothes, she walked
Toward the door where I was at. I don’t
Need to rehearse the details of her death.
You must have heard them well enough in those
Lurid and lavish details in the news.
But I can’t get out of my head how she would pray
That “Daddy would not cry too much for me,
That Mommy would remember me, that God
Would let me see them when in Heav’n.”
So much more to be said. But now it’s time
To get injected by the lethal fluid.
This ends my memory and this ends my speech.