So, there I am. Mom, dad, Steve, and me Sitting by the table with fork and knife Chewing, gulping, slurping
As I pondered in my restless purging of leek, root, and foot I came upon an incessant smacking A tounge wrapping and flapping In shameless galore upon the floor
"Steve", I cried, but tis too late. He's making out with a flayed chicken on a slate. My dad's like, "Damn Linda, I've had enough! The boy's about to meet his end!" His belt yanked loose and it cracked like a whip. Screech, shriek, yell, yelp
My senses quickened as my head stopped swimming My therapist frightened against the wall shaking "I believe", he said, with shaky hands "That the death of your autistic brother, caused your post dramatic stress disorder "