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Rated: E · Column · Community · #2292451
a poem about my dad, he was a well-known roofer in Dublin for years.
These are the hands of a tired man
out working hard every day
he never gives out
always something positive to say

He works fixing roofs
all over the Dublin streets
in the cold, rain sometimes sleet
never complains about the blisters on his feet.

It is still pitch blackout
when he is leaving
His wife and children
still soundly sleeping.

He is a fine builder
as strong as an ox
nobody would dare rip him off
for he is cunning as a fox

He has a van
on the roof he has ladders
there is no job too big
he is an amazing man

He hopes in the future
to bring his son
to teach him the trade
and have some fun.

It is dark when he leaves
it is dark when he gets home
he never complains
just so happy to get home








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