Joaquim Mohsen

I’m not sure why I am writing this, or what I will say,
But hopefully, you will remember that forsaken day.
Ms. Robertson, I’m the son you sold for a pitcher of beer,
The one from that story, a story so queer.

“Bertha Robertson, once while she was drinkin’,
Ran out of money, so she got to thinkin’.
She looked over and saw her baby boy smilin’,
And without hesitation or any sign of cryin’,
Offered him up for a pitcher of beer,
And so goes the story, a story so queer.

In a dim-lit bar with the smell of stale ale,
It did not take them long to respond to the sale.
They would have emptied all of their coffer,
To have a boy like me to love and to offer.

I was adopted by a woman, a true Southern belle,
Who was married to a man who owned a grand hotel.
You passed me over to them without any thought,
Giving up your baby boy, you weren’t even distraught.

One day, they finally told me the story,
Of Ms. Bertha Robertson and all of her “glory.”
All about the time I was sold for a pitcher of beer,
All in a story, a story so queer.

All of that time I had lived happy and free,
But then I heard what had happened to me.
Now I am here writing this letter and drinking a beer,
All because of a story, a story so queer.

So Ms. Bertha Robertson, or can I call you mom?
Please do not worry, please stay calm.
I just wanted to say that I am alive and well,
And that I sincerely hope you rot in hell.