He came from the sticks
And had
Little taste
For carrots
He wood
Just as soon
Beat you
As raze the son
Those Sunday mournings
Long a go
This poem is about the vicious cycles of violence passed on from generation to generation. Hurt people tend to hurt people, regardless of the presumed cause of the hurt. 
This violence hits home most commonly as domestic violence and abuse. This poem alludes to a violent Saturday night, perhaps fueled by alcohol, and the brutal aftermath the next morning and often wringing far into the future. When brutalized by violence, its victims often find themselves withdrawing from relationships and/or focusing on violent solutions as a perverse equality matching their experience. Victims of violence may find the less tangible incentives of intimate relationships elusive: “And had/Little taste/For carrots.” May we all find safe places, free from any form of violence, to experience the sometimes elusive, yet invaluable, intimate relationships with others.
