Old Yellow Chair

I try to think of childhood days
but happy memories will not come.
Though sad ones are plenty,
I will tell you only one.

My father was fond of the bottle
a little too much you see.
When he was drunk and angry
he'd take it out on my sister, my brother, and me.

I remember in detail
that old yellow chair.
The place we were beaten
till pain no longer could we bare.

I can still feel the fabric
pressed tightly to my skin,
knowing no one listened to my cries
as I paid for my father's sin.

I can feel the pain of the bruises,
taste the salt of my tears,
just the thougt of that yellow chair
stirs up anger and childhood fears.

If I ever saw that chair again
I can tell you what I'd do
I'd buy that horrid yellow chair
show it a thing or two.

I'd put it in an empty lot
with all the courage I found,
shoot it with a shotgun,
then burn it to the ground.

Then maybe childhood memories
would suddenly appear.
There must be some memories
where happiness filled the air.

Now you know my story
no need to hold it inside,
maybe all my anger
will one day subside.

A happy childhood memory
I wish with you I could share.
But all that remains of my childhood
is the thought of that old yellow chair.