I Don’t Remember? ©

I don’t remember, I don’t remember,
the house where I was born.
The window broken by the burglar,
on that fateful morn.
Nor, now can I remember,
my initial puzzlement,
which quickly changed to fear,
then anger, then resent.

I don’t remember, I don’t remember,
if I was fully aware,
of the hallway floorboards creaking,
caused by one who should not have been there.
And whether I had planned it,
in silence, nothing said,
as I reached for the pool cue,
which we kept beneath the bed.

I don’t remember, I don’t remember,
If I hit him once or twice.
Nor if the sound of wood on skull
could be described as nice.
And could we really have tied him up,
to stop him from escaping?
This vermin who’d defiled our home,
with wounded head, now gaping.

I don’t remember, I don’t remember,
If we called the police straight away.
Or why we’d decide, before they arrived,
to make this bastard pay.
Two broken arms, caused by a fall?
“Whilst trying to defend, sir!”
(So in the prison toilet block,
you’ll find out who your friends are!)

I don’t remember, I don’t remember,
If we learn from past mistakes.
If ignorance can nullify the memory’s pains and aches.
If your conscience stops you repeating,
certain things you did back then?
I’m glad I don’t remember,
so I could do it all over again.