My father was a Military man
He always stood tall and proud
He had a voice strong and sure
And where he went, Death clung to him like a shroud

Silent. He never laughed out loud
But it twinkled with his eyes
I’d love to say that he was gentle and kind
But those would be honest lies

He was a designer…of sorts
His fists were his tools, his canvas her skin
And she was cowed to submission
Telling neither friend nor kin

The thins he’s seen in Rwanda
They years of a warred peacekeeping
They left ghosts in his eyes
And made for nights of ne’er sleeping

The only thing he ever loved
Were his daughter and his son, I think
Well, it’s what I tell myself
To keep from slipping off the brink

He taught me to be sharp always
To let on less than I knew
And when it served the purpose
To play the happy fool

He taught me hoe to hold a gun
How to not feel but to think
And those nights I’d seen his drunken stupor
Taught me to never hold a drink

Not one tear did I shed
When the day came for him to die
For my father was a Military man who raised a tough girl
And tough girls don’t cry.

– Chiseche