Ballad
Written by Craig Elliot
An Irish bar just out of town
is where I meet my dad,
for him to spout his lectures on
the things we never had.
“You could’a been a lawyer or
a doctor all the same,”
within the hour weeping for
my mother and his shame.
“I should’a been there for y’son,”
he blubs, “I should’a cared.”
“Don’t worry dad, I'll buy y’a drink,”
I say through tearful slurs.
Traditional remorse each year,
it always goes this way:
the old man crying in his beer
I sigh an “it’s okay.”
“I do not drink,” he lies, “but I
will have a drink with you,”
We lift our glasses to the sky
He says: “Let’s start a new.”