Running. Across the open green,
Mindlessly chasing, to what would seem
Like a pebble to this small world,
Nobody that knew him,
Could say his story was untold,
Because I could love to tell it,
Since I was two years old.

Every Saturday morning,
A stench filled the air,
One that was as awakening,
As a surprise that was so unfair.
It was him, cooking while we remained sound asleep,
It didn't really bother him,
He was the provider of this keep.

One won't realize what they have,
Until it is gone, o so gone.
He was the best dad,
That words unspoken toward him, couldn't even fawn.