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His Fault?
His Fault?
Climb they mountains, under the oceans they go
Leaving no stone unturned, with information they flow
Bold they are, as they freely exPRESS
Despite being surrounded by many to supPRESS
The newspaper in which he wrote had news about him
The article yelled,” A journalist died for a whim.”
His soul moaned,” Not died but martyred.”
His soul fainting away, whispered,” Not a whim but for a truth about a man with beard.”
[Beard is symbolic of manliness ]
He turned to his new home anigh
Only to gaze upon his
family from high
Oh! In heaven, he met more of his kind
Brutally murdered in the glory of night
Saying hello to his new family, he looked down
Thrown out of house, begging on roads, his kids were found
His boss called upon his wife, told her he will end her strife
He tempted her to go to a man, having a weapon stained with reporter’s blood, a knife
His wife was pushed to be a prostitute
Her heart bled, she accepted for she had no other substitute
The husband, The father, The reporter lay in his vault
Thought he,” Was speaking freely my only fault?”
