It's time for that one Russian game again

With the one funny word I can pronounce

(It starts R-O-U?)

But not spell

(But they're mine.)

Only this time, I'm afraid no bullets are removed

For my family hails from a place I can spell

(But shouldn't)

So, well

(But they're mine.)

Seven barrels would be fitting; one deadly bullet

For each deadly sin, if you're shooting for metaphors

(Am I missing them?)

And all that rot

(But they're mine.)

Though somewhere past the bitter musings from old

Memories and heartbreaks and mistakes left unresolved

(But what has changed?)

I haven't forgot.

They're My Family.  Mine forever,

No matter how many times I forgive them

(Or don't)

They're always there, if not for me, then

With me, at least; for better or the usual.

So I won't

(I can't...

Give up on my own.)

I can't play that one Russian game...

That's it.  "Roulette."

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