• My father was a Farmer,
    Or so I say out loud,
    But he never had a solid job,
    One of which he could be proud.
    Labourer, Maintenance Man,
    Whatever came next, he was.

    My mother ran off with the milkman,
    Through this I was unto them born,
    And he worked to give me clothes,
    To keep me safe, happy and warm.

    When he died he was nothing,
    No "Poet" "Artist" or "Doctor",
    Nothing to proclaim on his grave.
    "Father" "Husband" and "Loved"
    These were the words that reined.
    He was just dead, as his title would be,
    He was still remembered through them and me.

    So it goes, in his honour,
    Instead of jobs I take words,
    And string them together.