A Wild Irish Rose sprung from a man’s hand.

He stunk like a skunk and gave an evil grin.

His face was crude, his words were lewd

and deep-down horror was all I could comprehend.

Eighteen years of nothing was all I got.

I once got jealous seeing a girl kissing her Pop.

Eighteen years of festering pain,

misfortune and distrust were all that I gained.

He told me one day that I was his heart.

I wondered why after he had torn it apart.

Red roses bleed love so true.

A misrepresentation for all that I knew.

My father carried a glass bouquet every day

and a rot gut and a diseased liver was all that he gained.

Whenever I find a man, I hate when my chest swells.

I always feel as if I’m walking into hell.

He says I’m pretty; he says I’m fine,

he says, “Baby, baby, won’t you be mine?”

From what I know my daddy was that kind.

In the event of wedding bliss and perfunctory discord,

I’ll say my vows and swallow every word,

then we’ll have kids someday.

My only fear is him carrying the glass bouquet.

Quite naturally, his could be homegrown,

then again, I might be carrying my own.