"Sixty-Five Roses"
Upon learning that my four-year-old son
Richard, had cystic fibrosis,
I was in shock, then I mourned.
Finally I became furious and fought back.
Franticly every night I would call everywhere
Looking for help; there was none.
One night after several long and agonizing
Phone calls pleading for help,
Richard came into the room
And said, "Mommy I know who you work for."
With some trepidation,
I posed the question back to him, "Who, Richard?"
"Sixty-five roses," he said with a smile.
I went to him and tenderly pressed his tiny body
To mine so he could not see
The tears running down my cheeks.
I was amazed since I had never told him
That he had advanced liver cancer.
Then as I hugged him, I realized
He couldn't pronounce cystic fibrosis,
So now every time, for the past thirty-eight years,
As I visit Richard, I smile and cry as I gaze upon
A seven-year-old's gravestone
That reads "sixty-five roses."
Copyright ©2004 John Faucett
Freedom
Freedom from the reds and the blacks and the criminals
Prostitutes, pansies and punks
Football hooligans, juvenile delinquents, lesbians and terrorist scum
Freedom from the ricans and the packies and the unions
Freedom from the gypsies and jews
Freedom from the long hair layabouts and students
Freedom from the likes of you
Copyright ©2003 John Faucett
