You roam around,
You wonder, you ask,
How it’s possible a mother, a woman,
Was allowed to shoot
Her magnanimous son-in-law.
Well let me tell you,
Yes, indeed,
It’s an ugly truth
That will stop you
From trying to shame me.
Here’s the back story then:
My daughter, only 17
Without knowing better,
Let herself be deceived—
By appearances, by ideas,
By comfort, and false love.
She up and left
Without heeding my advice;
She was blinded and fooled
By the hope of finally living
A luxurious, love-filled life.
Oh the brute! She broke my heart.
But I knew I was right,
When she called and cried.
What can I say,
I’m a mother, a woman after all.
I’m emotional,
impulsive,
Sensitive and that’s all—
Or at least you think so.
But you see I knew,
That man wasn’t right,
We women, they say
Are supposed to stay at home,
But this time I ventured out,
For I knew all could go wrong.
When I reached the house,
My head and heart
Finally concurred.
My daughter was in danger,
And saving her,
Only I could.
I saw the sword
Lifted and aligned,
Ready to blow, to struck,
To cut through her,
Clean and hard.
So my reaction—
The one that you despise,
The one so wrong
You can’t wrap your head around—
It came out of love,
Of desperation, of hope.
It came from that part within me
That only women know
How to understand and explore.
Criticize and judge
All that you want,
I saved my life,
My daughter’s and a man’s.
You say we don’t deserve
To live in this house,
Gold-diggers and whatnot,
Well here’s my reply:
He murdered, mutilated
Women for fun.
We’ve been told we should be
Docile and always at home,
Well now you know
Why venturing out is good,
Women, emotional and passionate
As they are,
Have the instinct, the head, the heart,
To kill, not for fun,
But for life.
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