stubborn stoic functionally drunk my Papa embodied all three his military hands were hard & he trapped us in these vices. “pretty please” we’d scream, adding sugar on top was the path to freedom Beatlebomb was the horses name, we were jockeys bouncing up & down on his knee. Beatlebomb never lost, but Bourbon bread an early retirement
Once Jim Beam pushed Papa…plow! Ol’ Beatlebomb brusied and feeble fell short. Like the liquor, Papa puddled the floor.
quit boozing! Pretty please-sugar on top. his hand harassed the bottle “maybe later”