This story begins in seventy-three
A patriotic hero emerging from a struggle
Resolved with a treaty
He seated himself next to his bride
Inside his head were flashbacks
Of a general in his barracks who knew not what compassion was
Years later he questions his wife
Why she did not put that cup of tea sideways
Or why she put a dab of salt in their rice
Or why the cereal in the cupboard did not suffice
She did not stand the moments
When he’d almost stretch his hand
And left, not looking back
Divorced, his kids he was not allowed
To see, his ranting was ever so loud
And in 1997 the headlines did read:
“Angry man yells at cloud”
A few years later he meets his kids
And again yells at his daughter
For mistaking her father for a man
He for no right reason loathed
He had to boast of his piety and force
Inside him anxiety dwelled and ate his soul
It told him he had to take control
And raise his children in a way of his own
His own children stood not his antics
“Mom, he yells, he yells so loud,
Can he not be allowed to hurt us?” the children cried
Their mom, knowing the reason why
Asserted to him that her patience ran dry
He shrieked in rage, the headlines again:
“Angry man yells at sky”
The children have grown, the boy’s a teen
Discovering his purpose, and as per his mom
Still possessed a curious mind
Nothing could bind his sister from joy
Every day was a new adventure
And would you venture a guess
As to how our angry man would act?
When his son took another language at school
He sounded what he thought exactly why
He found this to be a fatal mistake
The angry man would take his fury out
On the poor kid who never knew
That his dad was lying
“Dear, your dad never had such a privilege
He’s fibbing so you could fear his wrath”
And alas, the boy rued the day he saw
His father cry with words so raw
Of truth, the town people once murmured,
“So angry, he could break the law”
The children grew weary of the angry man’s ballad
Away from him they galloped
On a pegasus from the stable of their mother’s good will
Until he lost his daughter’s trust
And never did his claws reach her
Just when you think he could be allowed
To yell so loud and stir the demons
In his little girl’s head
The boy would rather have the right
To not fear that he might get scolded
Or threatened with a belt lash
Just because his father can’t stand hearing his lad,
“I’m busy, dad, can I call you in an hour?”
Or wet him with a shower of corny speeches,
“Be a dom, be a leader, I preach to you,
Women will distract you and are of no value,
They’re demons, they con you” is what he would say
And son would reply, “this is not okay”
For once again the angry man smokes his fumes
His cigs and his chairs and himself and no one
Here’s hoping the headlines would once resume:
“Angry man: I’m so sorry, son”