Learned 'im too well for me

He's a fighter, that one
A big boy with bigger brothers
grown up with the hardest father  
port side of the island.
 
Ah, Dad...
 
broad, heavy man, long white beard
gets the king seat at the bar against the pub wall  
for drinking double dark rums on ice all night -
laughs full and sings folk songs without music
loud and way off key for the bygone days
and sometimes for me.
 
We pinky swear, I think
[his baby fingers thicker than my thumbs]
but I still don't know what to.
He speaks round and round in riddles  
and tries to teach me words in old Scots  
but we have to smile and roll them out again  
because I never remember  
which slurs go with their proverbs.
 
He's full of convictions
"English bastards  
come to take our very tongues"
and aye, his barside throne  
is lacquered over small-town rusted wrongs.
 
He made my man a fast-footed, wolf-eyed fighter  
with those big hands and slurred proverbs
beat hell into his son's heart
by language of broken ribs and blood-stained walls
and I'd say from speculation
his own reflection  
must have just been too fresh.  
So for mine, now
pain is only pain
but love:
There's the danger.