I stamp hard three times on that grave-dirt like Crone said to do, but I still fret I ain’t finished with him yet.
Him and all his hurts, far back as I can remember.
Sound of his leather belt whistling though the pants-loops soon as he got home, strut through the shack with it doubled in his hand and never saying a word about what I done to deserve a whipping.
Or what I ain’t done, since it never mattered.
Even seeing his drawed-out corpse laying on the slab don’t call up pity.
He deserved every sort of suffering, and more.