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A story

Bill, was from the South
somewhere, copper skinned
and an american blend,
white and black and cherokee.
He was a groom and a n'er do well,
and we fought cause I didn't
like anyone telling me what to do.
At night the shadows in the house
that smelled of gin and loose restraint,
told me to fade, out the window,
and down the tree and take myself
to the stable, where I'd sit and
sleep and wait,
for dawn and business as usual.
So he found me there and asked
"whatcha doin' here sugar?" and
then grunted his own reply and said
if he ever found my ass there
it had better be working,
and he gave me a key.
He was given to drinking
and loving the wrong women
and I recall the musky smell
of cigarettes and brilliantine,
and my first taste of tobacco
and alcohol, were an object lesson
but I never told,
and my gagging made
him laugh, but I was safe with him
in the way I needed to be.

And I didn't know the fine points
of a proper role model.
So all who were such
fine examples of the true faith
as I was told so many times
by those who ought to know,
have gone to heaven cause they
didn't get to be as bad as they
wanted to be. And Bill, he's
gone too, and no one remembers
'cause I never told.