Fyodor Dostoevsky,
Fyodor Dostoevsky,
Was a Russian that knew all to well,
The ways of crimes and punishment,
Born November 11, 1821,
A time of many hardships for all,
Was this the reason,
You had such a understanding of human psychology?
For that kind of insight was it worth the pain?
Did the pen ever grow heavy in your genius of a hand?
A underground man that was before your time,
A despotic father drives many insane,
Epilepsy was just another fight for you to take on,
All the fights and struggles couldn't keep masterpieces,
From pouring like vodka inside your brain,
Speaking of vodka I better ask not,
Is it true what happened to your father,
or is just another plot,
Seems too far fetched can it be true,
The only person that could clear it up is you,
You called yourself a dreamer,
That may very well be true,
From those dreams many have traveled with you,
Thrown in jail on 23 April 1849,
The charge against you is,
Being part of a liberal intellectual group,
O my I cant for the life of me think of anything worse,
You really must be a extremist a relic of the past,
For such charges against you,
You may never feel the sun again,
I say this in jest,
Of course since we are now friends,
Sentenced to death is now what you say,
How could this really be?
You must be kidding,
Has the system gone mad?
Marched outside with a gun to the head,
This is the end the mind cries out,
But alas,
What is this a cruel little joke?
It was nothing ,
Called a mock execution,
Who in their right mind could come up with such a ploy?
I screamed with all my worth,
For it is them that should be buried 6 feet below the earth,
Marched off to Siberia instead ,
For 4 years in hell,
After this experience comes yet another classic,
The House Of The Dead,
Now for good reason many now understand,
Even after released from this hell of hells,
A price must still be paid,
Evil on top of Evil how long can this go on?
5 yrs to serve in the Siberian Regiment,
They say now must be paid,
How cruel can people be?
The one bright light for this man of sorrows,
Was a wife to be in the year 1857,
As if life didn't toss you enough curves,
She was to die in 64,
Shortly after his brother also passed,
Many men would crumple,
Couldnt even rise from the morning bed,
After such a life of pain,
To throw on top of your pains of woes,
Business debts started to crumple on thee,
Gambling compulsion its hard to stop the train,
Married again in 1867 trying to start a new,
The end finally came in St. Peters burg on 9 February 1881,
lung hemorrhage finally took you away,
Although your now gone from the world of literature,
Your words continue to inspire,
Hopefully this will make you smile from high up above,
Where you sit on a chair,
Reserved for one of the worlds greatest writers,
Steve. H.
Fyodor Dostoevsky,
Fyodor Dostoevsky,
Was a Russian that knew all to well,
The ways of crimes and punishment,
Born November 11, 1821,
A time of many hardships for all,
Was this the reason,
You had such a understanding of human psychology?
For that kind of insight was it worth the pain?
Did the pen ever grow heavy in your genius of a hand?
A underground man that was before your time,
A despotic father drives many insane,
Epilepsy was just another fight for you to take on,
All the fights and struggles couldn't keep masterpieces,
From pouring like vodka inside your brain,
Speaking of vodka I better ask not,
Is it true what happened to your father,
or is just another plot,
Seems too far fetched can it be true,
The only person that could clear it up is you,
You called yourself a dreamer,
That may very well be true,
From those dreams many have traveled with you,
Thrown in jail on 23 April 1849,
The charge against you is,
Being part of a liberal intellectual group,
O my I cant for the life of me think of anything worse,
You really must be a extremist a relic of the past,
For such charges against you,
You may never feel the sun again,
I say this in jest,
Of course since we are now friends,
Sentenced to death is now what you say,
How could this really be?
You must be kidding,
Has the system gone mad?
Marched outside with a gun to the head,
This is the end the mind cries out,
But alas,
What is this a cruel little joke?
It was nothing ,
Called a mock execution,
Who in their right mind could come up with such a ploy?
I screamed with all my worth,
For it is them that should be buried 6 feet below the earth,
Marched off to Siberia instead ,
For 4 years in hell,
After this experience comes yet another classic,
The House Of The Dead,
Now for good reason many now understand,
Even after released from this hell of hells,
A price must still be paid,
Evil on top of Evil how long can this go on?
5 yrs to serve in the Siberian Regiment,
They say now must be paid,
How cruel can people be?
The one bright light for this man of sorrows,
Was a wife to be in the year 1857,
As if life didn't toss you enough curves,
She was to die in 64,
Shortly after his brother also passed,
Many men would crumple,
Couldnt even rise from the morning bed,
After such a life of pain,
To throw on top of your pains of woes,
Business debts started to crumple on thee,
Gambling compulsion its hard to stop the train,
Married again in 1867 trying to start a new,
The end finally came in St. Peters burg on 9 February 1881,
lung hemorrhage finally took you away,
Although your now gone from the world of literature,
Your words continue to inspire,
Hopefully this will make you smile from high up above,
Where you sit on a chair,
Reserved for one of the worlds greatest writers,
Steve. H.