By: John Faron

A man whose morals were his defining feature,

To his children he was a valuable teacher.

He taught them what was wrong, as well as what was right,

To always be courteous, and never to fight.

His principles were upheld by an iron fist,

Used to help, not harm, those lost in the mist.

A mist that blanketed his small Southern town,

A plague of bigotry that dragged the people down.

Everyone was equal through his spectacled eyes,

Though why others disagreed he could never surmise.

As the malicious mist caused chaos to ignite,

Atticus stood firm, and fought the good fight.

Not the slightest waver, nor a hint of retreat,

His strength was of an oak, with the roots as his feet.

The crack of his rifle shattered the night,

As he fought for justice, and for what was right.

His unerring aim again was pure and true,

It pierced the great beast's heart, but even so he knew

That the heart was solid stone, from years of the hate,

And even as he failed, he knew it was not too late.

There would be another battle, to come another day,

Though who had the courage to fight...he could not say.

Copyright (1998) by John Faron