The 13th Anniversary

When Dad was a child, he stole a pack of cigarettes.
It turned out to be something that he would regret.
His mom spanked him and made him return the cigarettes to the store.
Dad's ass stung and he decided not to steal anything anymore.
Today is the thirteenth anniversary of his death.
After battling Leukemia, he drew his final breath.
Dad died on the thirteenth year of the century and the thirteenth of July.
He's been dead for thirteen years and it was sad to know he would die.
I'm usually not superstitious but I do hate the number thirteen.
Rather than face that number, I would rather face a guillotine.

[Dedicated to Charles F. Johnson (1947-2013) who died 13 years ago tonight on July 13, 2013]