Does anyone care for justice, dear Dad?: A poem

I can feel the rain with pain 

And can’t help going insane 

It pelts my uninsulated bones 

and cuts through, bleeding my pores 

I see a rock-solid tree taken down 

and reduced to an eye-sore mound 

And sense my despairing boots 

sink underground like its roots 

We can talk of art and poetry 

of love and feel familiarity 

As if in chatting we were free 

That survival was no melee 

But when we bow to subsist 

And say the world is just what it is 

That not be on our radar, not be on our list 

the much-needed institution of justice 

And I think of Dad, O dear Dad! 

how he was had by ungrateful cads! 

And the road to him seems jammed 

The world, with the evil of the deep sea and devil, is crammed