Please, ma’am, tell the court in your own words.

You have to understand, your Honor,
he’s not a bad boy.  If you could have seen him,
four years old, he was the second King in
the Christmas pageant – he could’ve been Joseph,
he knew all the words.  I told his father so many times,
in the country, he’d have room and rabbits to chase,

but the jobs are in the city.  What could we do?
He’s the first generation with tenement buildings
blocking out his moon.  We couldn’t keep track of him.
I knew he was in the streets and Central Park,
running with a bad pack of kids.  You’d think he’d
know better; he had an uncle, got himself into trouble,
some Sundays  we visit his cage at the zoo.

It was a rough school, though.  I heard the things
they called him.  Even the gym teachers laughed
when he was the last one in his class to go through
the change; and even after, he couldn’t climb the rope.
He can run; but they can’t afford track and field.
There’s no band, no art classes, the Boy Scouts
don’t send our kids to summer camp; what else
was there for him but to join with a gang?  

His father, your Honor?  He’s no help at all.
He was one of the good boys, chewed his wolfsbane,
locked himself in the barn when the moon waxed full,
sent the herd out to pasture, only went on licensed hunts,
hid in the underbrush with a book.  Greek, he speaks;
to him, son is the real dead language.  

I did what I could, but who listens to their mother?
I’d come home, he’d be watching horror movies,
taking notes from Stephen King, playing that
Altered Beast video game until his friends showed up,
and then he’d be off.  At first I’d stay up, waiting,
checking the news for wild animal attacks, praying.
I just thanked God every morning he made it home,
turning back just as dawn pinked the sky,
alive, unscarred and human.  

Your Honor, I know what he’s done is bad,
but can’t you give my boy one more chance?