To fry your ma-in-law in fiercest
fire,
to thread headmasters with
electric wire,
to strip 4B and flog them to the
bone,
to prosecute your son, claw back
the loan,
to drop your daughters down the
nearest well
and tell their paramours to go to
hell,
to cut and run, to cast off every
chain,
to flirt and fly, be free as air
again
is not the custom - so at least it
seems.
But wait - that proverb prances
through my dreams:
‘Custom sans reason’s but ancient
error.’
Yes, indeed; I’ll start my reign
of terror.
(February,
1990)
