On Papa's Farm
by John J. McDonough, Jr.
On Papa's farm, you got your start.
He changed your diapers, made you read.
From many men, you learn your art.
Five men came; they ripped your shirt.
They all took turns; they made you bleed.
On Papa's farm, you got your start.
They drove you south, the blindfold tight.
A "daddy"* says you're now his kid.
From many men, you learn your art.
Beneath each trick, your eyes are shut.
A recitation holds the mind—
On Papa's farm, you got your start.
Are you fourteen or thirty-eight?
You try to run; you're always found.
From many men, you learn your art.
You teach the younger girls a rant—
Five men came; they made you bleed;
They tossed a peso into Papa's cart.
From many men, you learn your art.
* A term a pimp may require his victims to call him.
May 31, 2024