He was a whiskey priest, my dad said

Maybe a reaction to celebate life

Liked his Jamieson far too much

Unnatural for a man not to have a wife.

But he would laugh 

and he would joke

acting just like

your everyday bloke

he was a big jovial man

with strange smelling breath 

in my mind always 

connected with funerals and death.

Dad told the Father the grass was wet and yet

he approached as though he couldn’t wait, with his wavering whiskey gait and maybe it was a slip or maybe a trip  but if it hadn’t been for dad’s restraining save he’d have been sent sprawling into the open grave to land on the  coffin’s top but dad’s strong arms brought him abruptly to a stop to hold him until, balance restored he could continue once more to send the deceased on his way,  with his  thanks to dad for the saving of the day. 

Dad was the best grave digger

That could be found

In all the villages for

Miles around

With absolutely vertical sides

His graves were tidy and neat

Every inch of the  

Required six feet.

The Whiskey Priest admired his work

Employed my dad whenever he could

Respecting  him as a trusted man

Whose work was always true and good

A man who could see

Through the Whiskey’s charms

And supply when required

Strong steadying arms.