For Joe Jackson, The Jackson Family Patriarch 'I Didnt Beat Them, I Whipped Them.' -Joe Jackson Poem by Ashton Bobbitt

Was it worth it Joe?
raising those pliable boys
like musical slaves,
driving them into the
brown Gary Indiana earth like R&B
mules pawing at the cold ground with
each well orchestrated lash,
training them to reel in the riches like
money is trout,
rolling green oceans of riches
up to their perfect fros cut from fine ebony,
drowning in the fame and
freedom that it brings you?
Was it worth it Joe?

Look at Michael, the one who's
name will live through history
in a odd type of glitter over the others, the single glove of mystery he wears.
Look what the bubble of fame did to him, its thin wet sides that choke.
Witness his face, white and pasty, bloodless looking,
strange pink lips, a garish smile like the Joker's smile,
and his taste for youths, his propensity
for desiring the little ones, napping with little ones, as if they are candy to be chosen in an obscene candy store.
Look at what fame did, how its glitz can wither, how its light can drain
the strongest ones, the most resistant ones.
Look at what being driven did, Joe. Look at what a musical mule, albeit a beautiful one grows up to be, look at how he behaves in the night when no one is watching, when no one is at the ranch but his young nubile candies, his 'loving boys'
and souless sycophants glad to be in the glow of fame like moths around
a porchlight in summer.
Look at what losing a childhood did, like losing a map for your life, look
fame's two faces...the wondrous and the twisted

Was it worth it Joe?