I am still writing about this bastard
who allowed the rape of children
to go on and on and on. Told ya so!
All for football? All for money, people.
So they could live in big houses
and eat at fucking Applebee's
have every mundane thing they wanted,
save what they didn't spend for heirs.
When you're an American King,
a celebrated coach, a damn living legacy,
all you can imagine is yours, disposable.
Anyone can be wasted, and later, discarded.
Year after year, no consideration for posterity.
Only let's take these kids and rape their futures.

This poem is my response to Kenia's Wednesday Challenge to the Real Toads. Yes, I know it's Friday. (For some reason, my computer freezes when I try to add a link to Kenia's challenge here, so for now, I'm leaving it out and will fix when I can. To get to Real Toads, click on the cute tree frog photo to the right.)