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”