He’s back in school at forty-five,
Resuming after thirty years
In prisons of the State and mind,
To try and build new careers.

He sits beside the empty chairs
Which form the second row of class
For even with his drive to learn
He knows he isn’t front-row brass.

He’s back in school without an eye,
Reportedly with focus sharp
On taming inner Gyarados
Into a docile Magikarp.

He’d learned about the Pokémons
To lure the kids he later sold.
He always had the rarest cards
And rarest children, it is told.

They labeled him a psychopath.
They beat him hard in custody.
They gave him not a drop to drink
Until he drunk his yellow pee.

So, how is this detestable,
Despicable, degenerate
Allowed among the kids again
To study, score, and celebrate?

And how are parents sitting still
Without creating much uproar?
Perhaps because they do not know
He once was known as Randichor.

Perhaps because he struck a deal
To have his public records cleaned
For turning in the bigger sharks
Who ran the national traffick scene.

Perhaps because he spent some years
In many jobs in many towns
Until he made a decent name
As one who’s had his ups and downs.

Perhaps because he chose to hide
His past from school interviewers.
Perhaps because he left no trace
For mafioso pursuers.

Perhaps because the ones who know,
The ones who dogged him all these years
The NGO who caught him first,
Are choosing to believe his tears.

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