ramblings and things
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
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.