The cops get I’m and he spills the beans, than f*****g what?
The system swoops down, they lawyer him up, get a bunch of psych heads to coddle him. They show I’m some ink blots, have him touch his nose with his finger and ask him if his dog died when he was a kid. Holding his f*****g hand, the DA lets him cop an insanity plea bargain.
Then, the puke goes to a fed lockup. He gets three squats and a cot, hangs with other vermin, lifts weights, plays B-ball, watches Oprah, and has never been happier in his life.
But that don’t fix it, for who’s talking for the kid? Who’s holding the kids hand, like I did with Missy’s?
What about the parents? They don’t get an all included paid vacay at the joint. They get a life of pain, tears, grief and nightmares. Just ask John Walsh about that.
That’s
