Daddy had a gun Now my grandad Albert, he knew guns been at the front, knew scopes, how to make red mist got gassed for his sins had a bunch, but mother put them down a grid in Cheetham Hill, they bred now they all have one not me, good job, because you can only shoot yourself just the once But daddy had a gun and he shot himself everyday I remember looking up and watching him hed shave then shoot pig insulin, subcute Daddy got the hots liked to whack me on occasion nature of his inner delirium like what I got too now. Ta pops shove a sprout down my throatbox played accordion, a big red one on the never never played a bagpipe pianer could draw like leaonardo da vinci had a norton, black, with a sidecar and his little gun stainless steel luger a metal skeleton Daddy could drive a coach I think, but worked in shops and such sold green shield stamps bit like me maybe or me like him never settling doing what he could so he roamed and sold and he sold and he roamed until one day worn too thin by diabetes, pig insulin, shit work and smoking he pushed his broken down mini up a hill and that did him in I remember visiting and his last words to me no bleeps of oxygen saturation monitors or constant ecg back then just a cradle to keep the sheet off his feet I didnt inherit much no riches no accordion or Norton tho I always wanted one I just got a useless little insulin gun which Id shoot but it had no use at all for dad and me, I guess it never did ma was right, throw guns down the grid
Posted on: Tue, 08 Apr 2014 21:53:15 +0000