My father loved the sound of dynamite,
no target ever, just alarming boom.
Avoiding guilt he would a long fuse light,
then rush to be with mother in her room.

My father loved to make hot barbeque
no chicken, beef, or pork but rabbit wild,
how hard believing that I never knew,
in choice I was an isolated child.

My father smoked and drank not to excess,
no lecture that I should avoid them both,
he could make liquor from a cider press,
and wine and whiskey from good nature's growth.

My father cared for older family,
the youngest son of youngest son was he.