Dunce's Lament Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

Mom was tall, fashionably stout for the time,
a ruddy-cheeked rustic from County Clare,
setting family rules she deemed fair.

She avidly researched the annals of crime.
Lurid headlines and our neighborhood
provided ample data for a book
on how to achieve sainthood.

I vehemently rebelled from her rule
to run with a crowd that played the fool.
I chose the role of brawler and thief
seeking refuge on the nearest barstool.

'Curse of Christ in his bowels! Gallows meat! '
She occasionally yielded to righteous wrath,
uttering imprecations of high and holy heat.
We knew then that Mom was on the warpath!

She prayed that I wake from deepest sleep
to realize that sinful living could not relieve
my pain and anguish. 'You are in too deep!
Only God can grant you reprieve! '

Sainthood will forever elude me,
despite my mother's selfless sanctity.
In some way I know now, I chose Satan
and the darkness of my own prison.

Let me now in silence play the role of dunce,
cap and bells askew as I eschew grievance!
Hanging is too good for the likes of me.