The Funeral
Rifles cracked
A bugle played
I stood in the grass
Beside your grave
My eyes were dry
I couldn’t cry
My lack of grief
Was justified
In your presence
I treaded soft
Never knowing
What’d set you off
A life free of frolic
A life melancholic
Life living with
An alcoholic
Why am I here?
Why did I bother?
Simple really
You’re still my father
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