Song of a Fearful Father

 

Speak glowingly of the dead, my son,

The ones who have gone to their rest;

Speak of the blood spilt red, my son,

In facing the ultimate test.

 

Speak of those dead from age, my son,

The ones who have laid down their cares:

They taught you to conquer your rage, my son,

Your elders kept you in their prayers.

 

When speaking of those who were murdered, son,

Remember they hadn’t a choice.

Their killers’ cold blood had long curdled, son,

And they took away somebody’s voice.

 

And—

Speak glowingly of the self-slain, son,

The ones who were ready to go.

They freed themselves of long-lasting pain, son,

Their stories are not ones of woe.

 

Your father you’ve always looked up to, my son,

I know I’ve raised you to be thus.

Promise me now you’ll think well of me, too,

When I have returned to the dust.

 

This life is a long and a hard one, son,

Not everyone can last forever.

Some battles just cannot be won, son,

No matter how brave or how clever.

 

And now if you’ll excuse me, son,

There’s rope that I must not tie loose.

I’ve got to prepare my noose, my son—

I’ve got to prepare my noose!