Randy Jackson had 4 kids.
It took his all to keep them hid.
When he thought of his lonely child,
he kicked his dog, coughed blood, and smiled.
Eleven minutes after birth,
he said, “Hey son. Welcome to my turf.”
For dinner they had oatmeal
and for their birthday they got hay.
In March, he slipped on a banana peal.
His back has never been the same.
Never in my life have I seen that:
an eight year old in a yellow hard hat.
He put them to work to pay his bills
while Randy jerked off and swallowed pills.
One day, the state come to Randy’s home.
They come about that desperate moan.
The one that leaks from the basement at night
because Randy’s kids had to fight
over stale bread and rusty water.
His wife was as bad, but they never caught her.
Randy’s last child was a daughter.
A man came there one day and bought her.
He raised her like a charmer raises snakes;
he said nice things and never made mistakes.
Together, they traveled this old blue globe.
They were as happy as the rich man Job.
She had a talent for cooking,
and baked all through the day.
She made a cake when no one was looking
and then went on the hammock to lay.