I often am questioned, on decisions I've taken.
Why my help for some women,
leaves me often forsaken.
"I have a need to save
every woman that's broken"
is often the words,
that are bandied and spoken.

To understand me,
you need understand this.
Why I help all the women
staring at the abyss.
If you can picture a child,
at the age of "Still learning".
Where all things are still wondrous,
to a young mind discerning.
His tiny mind can't fathom,
the meaning of hate.
His heart far too pure,
to let anger relate.

So why then is Daddy,
that mythical being.
(The God of his world,
all-knowing, all-seeing),
stumbling around,
with his fists in the air?
Punching poor mummy
and pulling her hair?
Why's mummy's face
all puffy and swollen?
And why does her blouse
have a dirty great hole in?
Why is her eye,
fast turning blue?
I know it's my fault,
but what did I do?
If I could make Daddy,
stop with his flailing,
then maybe I'll stop
all my crying and wailing.
My trousers all wet.
I hope he can't see,
or his belt will come off
and land heavy on me!

But the most difficult part
In this tales relating
and the reason for forty
years guilt and self-hating,
was the hoping that mum,
could hold a while longer
lest his fists turn to me
before I grew stronger.
More often than not though,
his aggression satiated
with mum laying still
in the blood he'd created.
So his fists would not seek
a much smaller prey,
His beating of one
was enough for the day.

I'm forty five now,
but its gotten me thinking,
It's the reason I'm sure, 
for my smoking and drinking.
Because deep down inside,
lays a little scared boy,
who's guilt for his mother,
prevents any joy.

So my dire need to save
even when that I shouldn't
comes from a small child,
who was little and couldn't.
So see now my friends
I prefer if you'd rather,
not put down the man,
for the sins of his father.