ramblings and things

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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.



 



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Whiskey Priest