Your father l divorced

Lorah, go see your Dad,
by now wishing him dead!
One pile of mad l trashed,
He's your ill- Dad!
Not my husband, for
you carry his blood;
Let him rot in junkyard!
A thief of night;
Paralysed me 'n ditch,
Pathetic mendicant,
One l won't give an inch!
Now in my castle,
but once a mere bettle,
herded like cattle
No a bite for my apple!
Won't cry over spilt milk,
That Dad 'f yours,
's a damned mocker!
Don't, for a moment,
get me pissed Lorah!