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duncanwrite Jul 2013
My Father’s Clothes

My father left a rack of suits
And on their cloth still hung cologne
Hand tailored navies, greys and mutes
And one plus-fours in herringbone

He had a drawer-full plump with ties
Rolled silks and regimental stripes
But none with matching handkerchiefs
For dad was not one of those types

He favoured good strong walking shoes
And walk he did with fancy cane
“If you look smart, then you are smart”
Was Duncan Baxter’s wise refrain

Some thought my dad a gentleman
He opened doors and doffed his hat
And rose when ladies entered rooms
Now why don’t people still do that?

Folks called him “sir” when he’d arrive
He had that bearing in his blood
Though widowed with a brood of five
He did the very best he could

He taught us rules are hard and fast
And manners make you who you are
And please and thank you always last
As first impressions take you far

Another thing he used to say
“To thine own self always be true”
Has helped me even to this day
When sometimes unsure what to do

Occasionally he’d raise his hand
To keep his errant sons in line
I didn’t understand it then
I wonder would it work on mine

We children could have had much more
Our aunts and uncles used to say
If he’d been wise enough to store
Some money for a rainy day


In truth he lived beyond his means
As men of taste are wont to do
And never realized his dreams
To live the life he wanted to

He moved among a group of friends
Who drank pink gins at social dos
And puffed on Turkish cigarettes
And daily scanned the racing news

He should have been a country squire
Perhaps what he was born to be
With open fires and hearty stews
A labrador beside his knee

To ride about in hunting pink
My brunette mother by his side
Alas there was no joy I think
For father after mother died

My mother left her darling ones
All spirited and out of hand
Three lovely daughters and two sons
On Valentine’s in Newfoundland

Now father lies in simple ground
Carnations flutter at his stone
Across the road, a pub he’d found
Where he would never drink alone

The day he left, the landlord’s flag
Was billowed half along its pole
And locals gathered, glass in hand
To send a tribute to his soul

And when I gaze at hillsides green
Or hear a Richard Tauber strain
Or think of places where we’ve been
I see his weathered smile again

My father left a rack of suits
Those things that last when you are gone
And life is short and love is rare
No matter what clothes you have on.
Duncan Baxter Fletcher -- 1908-1988 (single parent from 1952-1988) Born in Halifax, Yorkshire. Buried in Shalford, Surrey.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i'll just spend the next one hundred years
coupling english and german words,
polish and germans words toward
a common source etymology...
i mean that: we all spoke oops loud
enough to later turn
a monkey **** into a cuckoo's mating call.
it'll be fun, beginning with schtintzel
and shabowy...
    frau swer... kaiser mer...
                     pigeon... tauber... gołąb...
acht scheisse! achtung de-klaße!
Berliner... cho cho und bon bon -
the most famous person from world
war ii? herr bitte bonbon...
      sounds a bit like otto von bismarck...
    but then who the hell needs names
and places of origin... so it became:
herr bitte bonbon - or that's how i remember
my grandfather's memory of the second world war.
                    nein etyomological source...
scheisse!
kan...ang-a-****-ah-roo!
      zając!
               nien nien mein herr!
    nein cünt-guru!
              das ist ja: ist: vast-volapul schtad!
pull: heil stretch armstrong!
     pajac! pająk... kurvature pierdu hop hop
i kęs nad turbasem jaj w tej pachwi
na pokaz... kein-gur! or kangur... (kein or kęs -
one of them meaning a bite to eat)
       and that really was: laughter coming
from Himmler...
                rabbit... hare...
   zeitgeist... or that ******* zając!
           red... rot... czerwony...
              but is that herr or háré i.e. ha-re?
ah... neinen.
  yuden yedwabben: jad, and jedwab...
          ja...
   haitian creole...
       silk...            seide...
or wee wee twirly blau of epileptics
          in the night of a polizeimobil...
                           and given i read Finnegans Wake,
i really can write this sort of *******
and not expect a shut-down of the internet
or stating something viral...
i'm trying to remain European...
     i never said i wanted to speak
a Texan drool... as the Scots will already assert:
what with T2 and what really doesn't
sound as anything i could attest to...
  it's really become a globalisation's surprise...
nothing local makes it to the global stage,
and nothing global ever really makes sense
on a local level, stage or no stage.
      but applause to the "loser" in me,
given the motto: everyone wins in capitalism...
            i best own it...  
          i might really want that grave
and epitaph after all.

— The End —