By Van Allen Bear
There is a type of man that sits on his stool,
So sure, so mean–in a world so cruel,
The warmth and love of the sun outside,
This type of man, in shade he hides.
This type of man makes short his love,
Makes sharp his blade, pulls tight his gloves,
Armor, boots, and helmet bright,
This type of man lays awake all night.
This type of man stalks in the wood, he wish a war, he wish a flood,
All the ‘didn’t’s and all the ‘could’s–he’s drawn so thin–he wants blood.
This type of man draws in the sand and thinks the world apart,
So silly he seems, his armor gleams, so hidden is his heart.
His halls are cold, no stories told,
No kids a-cooing, he sends them shooing– yet the youngins do grow old.
Upon his desk, letters pile up as dust,
The webs in the corners, the ashy embers; they add to the musk.
This type of man, deep down inside, wishes for a change of times,
This foolish man, with idle hands, had been ignoring all the signs.
The shutters flap upon the wind, tappings upon his doors,
The chairs all squeak, the tables lean, the fire suddenly roars!
The man sits up on his stool, the noises rocked him with a fright,
This life of his, always hid, surely isn’t right.
Make a fix, clean a corner, call the children in,
Be there a hall, a home, a full parade of thy lov’d kin!
This type of man sees his shortcomings, eats with them to close the day,
Before his rest, in his tidied nest, his child comes to say:
“Father whom is troubled so, we wish you better, don’t you know?”
Before him there, in inn’cence bare, that boy of his will grow.
Before he goes this man should know, there looking at his kin,
While his mind’s been caught on pain and rot, he’s shown where to begin.
That night he strolled about his lair, a candlestick in hand,
He thought all night and fought his spite:
“All this time and all this land–
Tear off your blinders you silly man!
Wicked are the ways of me,
To drivel and desire, for pain and death to gain in coin,
For profits oversea!
How I shall make it right, before my soul departs this world in flight,
I shall love my babe, my daughters small, steward my sons towards good and right.”
Achy floors and rat’ling shutters, the wind blows hard that night,
Pacing round those halls of his, the wind blew out his light.
When morning comes to the world around, this type of man kneels ‘pon the ground,
“O spare me Lord, one day more, my trivial thoughts were drowned,
By greed and wrath–I confess at last–my mortal flesh was owned.
This day today I’ll see it through, I’ll love my kin, and I’ll bow to you,
I shake these trees and rid the snakes, I’ll nevermore fraternize in sin,
While my mind’s been caught on pain and rot, I’ve been shown where to begin.”
This type of man gets off his stool, forgives his pains, drawers up the cruel,
Puts ‘way the scotch, tucks ‘way the stool, shakes off his dust, no-more a ghoul.
He finds his wife kneading dough–her fingers cold, her tied-up hair be frayed,
His touch to her had been missed, she thought their love decayed.
The postman comes, with letters–three; in them words from oversea,
Reports and charts, the postman boasts, “numbers high of coins and ghosts!”
“Make kindling of such news as these, these empty words from overseas.
Feed the hounds, clear the halls, have music sound and no more squalls.
Fetch the long gun for me son, it’s time this table’s feast be won.
O’ wife my love, send word to family, a feast tonight for all hereof.
Postman follow me in kind, it’s time for an upland game,
This man I was, and the one stands ‘ere, from here on won’t be same.”
This type of man returns to his estate,
A bird in hand, for each man, fowl for each plate,
Lanterns alight, a dancing night, no more shall he desecrate.
This type of man lays down his hand, his final years roll by,
His sons grown old, daughters too, left to a proud widow’d wife.
Family comes from all around, this man be lowered in sacred ground,
For were it not of a fright, that windy night; his child’s words profound,
He’d be laying dead in a pool of red, or overseas or drowned.
Remembered for his tut’lage and care, nay for his armored suit,
This type of man, without despair, known by his fruit.
