Murder Rate

February 18, 1993|By H.B. Johnson Jr.

Too emotional teen-ager . . .

Live wire that splits

a smut-thick sky.

Sees a capital punishment, then kills.

And we dare ask why.

See this pain-soaked child . . .

Grab men and women,

Hold them dear,

Make them fat and frightened,

Cook them in the chair.

Murder rate, murder rate . . .

Back and forth again.

A wind that turns around at night;

Will it ever end?

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