Son Of Kings
by Belinda Roddie
David, David, please come
home some day. Your father's
sick and dying, and the nights
are very cold. You took away
the fire in a box when you departed.
Now you watch the world grow dark
while your name repeats on the wind:
David, David, David.
David, David, you are the son
of kings. But they lost their crowns
and also their heads in wars long
ago. Your brothers fight for bread,
every crumb sticking to their teeth,
while they screech your name like
wounded beasts: David, David, David.
David, David, you are always
welcome here. I'll make you
your favorite soup, and we'll eat
for an extra two. Your father's singing
philosophy to cope with his impending
doom, while in the room, we wipe his
face after he cries, and we sing him
a humble lullaby, called,
"David, David, David."