ang to manhood

coming of age for a young lad in the 70's
also a priest visiting with the what appeared to be wrong intentions
no PREY here
Age to manhood


The sun has not yet risen when he is up out of bed,

Silently he rises he has chores waiting ahead,

The fire must be lit with the sticks that he gathered,

In a house full of children to which none he has fathered,

The table must be set and the porridge put on the gas,

All things in their place for when the get ready for mass,

When this is done he must silently wake the brood,

Feed them their breakfast making sure they are good,

He calls them one by one from out of their sleep,

And slowly half aware down the stairs they creep,

To the kitchen to where the morning meal will be found,

They all know better then to make a single sound,

It’s a morning ritual having become habit as such,

Today is Sunday and they must all attend church,

Weekends were always a bit harder then most days,

When he could wander about at times in his own haze,

But then there was homework to help out with from school,

He had to be cleverer then most he would not be a fool,

Everyone helped out throughout the week,

Even the shy ones and those who were meek,

But Sunday after the Saturday night before,

When loud voices and fights and slamming of door’s,

This was a day when what was left in their wake,

Was best left sleeping for the children’s sake?

He was twelve going on thirteen,

But Sunday was a day where he could always be seen,

The spuds were peeled and the meat in the oven cooking,

When they got up hangover raging no need to be looking,

He’d learned you see there was always a fight,

Over something or other from a Saturday night,

And it went on into Sunday as chores were left undone,

No one else available so he became the one,

So at the ripe old age of thirteen he’d do all that he can,

This is the age he recalls that he became this man,

And as years passed and time just flew,

He still tries to make things easy doing whatever he can do.

05 Aug. 12

  No PREY here.

He came to visit the house of my mother,

As he did I imagined with many of the other’s,

It was a weekly thing and he seemed to bring fun,

There were smiling faces on most everyone,

He was the newest man of the cloth a parish priest,

And whenever he called there was always a feast,

Apple cakes baked in a nice hot oven,

And almost a full one in his mouth he was shoving,

Isn’t it a sin I thought harbouring ideas of greed,

You wouldn’t have thought it the way this man would feed,

It was a regular thing week after week,

And I soon noticed the sisters were playing hide but no seek,

So I chose to answer him at the door this fine summer’s day,

It was usually the sisters but they had gone to play,

Good day father I said as I opened the front door,

But he just passed me by he never did that before,

He greeted the mother, who was sat at her table,

And spoke for a few minutes yet he appeared a little unstable,

Would you like some tea I said and a deliberate mistake?

Or is it something stronger for you I should make,

Here I was thinking long and hard to myself,

There would be war if anyone went near the father’s top shelf,

Well he shook hands with the girls and had no time for the boys,

Even at fourteen us lads could spot all of his lies,

Whenever he shook hands he would always try to linger,

And tickle them softly with his little finger,

We knew this for each of us asked our own group of sister’s,

All said the same he’s no priest he’s a molester,

At the end of the week when he was to make his call,

He’d have a job passing me without notice in the hall,

Made aware of things that I knew nothing of before,

If he called he would be shocked at my mother’s door,

But call he did having made sure she was out,

Sure I dropped him to his knees on the doorstep with a clout,

A letter went out this day to your boss,

Now pack your bags and away with you ya coss,

Call no more to this house for your dues and free meal,

No more in this parish will you prey on and feel.

04 Aug. 12