Rapsheet – by Ross Hartwell

Oughta be a crime–missing’ first steps, first voice–tellin’ momma “No!,” as if he had a choice.

Ought a be a crime–when he’s gettin’ on the bus–not holdin’ his hand, as he puts up a fuss.

Oughta be a crime–pacin’ the cell, hopin’ for a pardon–beggin’ and pleadin’, while he begins kindergarten.

Oughta be a crime–not bein’ a fixture–in his little boys life, growin’ up in pictures.

Oughta be a crime–missin’ birthdays, proms, and graduation–or when he boards the plane, to his first duty station.

Oughta be a crime–missin’ the happiest day of his life–as the preacher says, “You may now kiss your bride.”

Oughta be a crime–not biddin’ farewell–as he steps on a ship, wavin’ a final farewell.

Oughta be a crime–not bein’ there to soften–the pain his wife felt, over the flag draped coffin.

Oughta be a crime–the freedoms he gave away–he can wish all he wants, the boy’s not here today.

Oughta be a crime–spendin’ life outa touch–cuz things that matta most, never seemed to matta much.

Oughta be a crime–not bein’ a son to his father–or a father to his son, seemed too much a bother.

Oughta be a law–against these crimes he’s committed–‘cept the penitence he serves is much worse than prison.

Ross Hartwell 1893452
Memorial Unit
PO Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266