You could tell that in his youth he had been admired
A residue of that confidence clung to his proud bearing
It lay dormant in the wrinkles that now ran deep across his once handsome face
Like the scars of countless barroom brawls

He wore his weathered skin like a bragging right
As if his years labouring out in the elements
Were akin to the tribulations of a seaman
Who’d known nothing in life but stormy days and nights
He could weave an anecdote like he was casting a spell
His voice was deep and hollow, almost bass

Just like your father

A whiskey growl through which all tenderness was expressed
On a wave of stale cigarettes
When he spoke meaningfully he did so lyrically
His conversation was riddled
With references, quotes and the unabashed plagiarism
Of Joyce, Behan and Beckett
He clothed me in it
He clothed me in this
He clothed me in it before I was of age to appreciate it