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A Brute of a Man
 

 


The air in the bar
took on a different hue
when he made
his presence known.
He was brute of a man
and everyone knew
It was best just
to leave him alone.

He’s weathered many
battles in his time
some he won and some
he came up short.
Scars are his medals,
he finds them no crime
Just don’t ask him
for a detailed report.

A man of few words
and simple needs is he
He speaks when
it’s necessary to cope.
He’s comfortable and
used to his own company.
With his demons
he’s learned how to grope.

If you look closely,
as close as he’ll allow,
you can see that he was
once a handsome galoot.
Always standing his ground,
to no man he’d bow
can rearrange features
on the wrong end of a boot.

He doesn’t come by
all that often,
it’s just as well
The guys in the bar give
him a very wide berth.
As far as he was concerned
they could all go to hell
He’d drink his fill,
then go back to work the earth.

Yes, he was a brute of a man,
happy in his own bubble,
working a small patch of land
on the outskirts of town.
He ate what he raised,
sold to travelers for his trouble,
saved the money for the
Irish whiskey he would down.

Then all of a sudden
he was no longer
seen in the bar.
The bottle of Irish whisky
developed a coating of dust.
His legs weren’t so bad
that they wouldn’t
carry him that far,
maybe this year’s crop
had been a financial bust.

Folks got to whisperin
‘bout Old Henry
not bein round.
They wondered
if something foul had come
callin on him.
A few of the braver or drunker
barflys headed outta town
towards the small spread,
to see Henry,
call it a whim.

Well Old Henry was a loner
right down to the end
of his days.
What the posse found
made them wish they
had never come ‘round.
He had dug his own grave,
staying so true to his
singular ways
he lay there uncovered
except for bugs,
six feet deep in the ground.


Submitted for the FOS - Weekly Form: Narrative Poem challenge

By AlwaysMyWords

© 2010 AlwaysMyWords (All rights reserved)

 

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