THE MAKING OF A REBEL

He spent his childhood in a ‘grey house’,

All alone,

With none to care and none to see,

As his life did commence,

Far too prone, to ill influence.

All too free, yet none to free!

He spent his time in brooding thought,

All about the havoc, the world had brought.

What he daily faced;

Not from troubles of want and need,

He had enough to drink and feed,

Yet not, love enough, for his souls need.

It was a cruel sort of hopelessness,

A bitter sort of heartlessness;

To take away what, he could easily see.

It was a horrible coldness,

To take away his pride and boldness,

To crush, what would be his nobility, with laughing glee.

He was forced to follow, every rule and regulation,

And he suffered deep indoctrination;

Oh! His home, his mind, was but a prison,

Living in a land where,

To think was almost treason,

He lost all power of reason.

How could such a man, a peaceful citizen be?

Rebel, did he become, with joy and glee.