Mi Pappy

murder sang in me where the sultriness of hot cotton fields consumed by old carny folk gestures given any doubt to a freedom that ole Abe spoke of diligently why I never dreamt a better dream where I'd giggled life's fortitude beneath a darkened sky with brillant hues of wandering mirth beyond a quaint timing of lemonade and broken slacks why I'd began to simply utter faint whispers of where I'd been through the gallows and gentle memoirs of mi Irish pappy I'd exploded in a sensational absolute glow covered in shamrocks I solemnly wondered what gift shall I leave to mi irish pappy perhaps the cream colered scarf or a pair of paisley socks as the hanging moss spread sparingly over land where he'd become to grow as old as mud pies underneath the empty porch