Screaming with lungs of mud,
I clawed through and through and finally rose.

I cackled with frenzied soldiers and bar maids
and rum-soaked captains with sticky beards
and limitless appetites—dangerous raconteurs.

Ethanol dripped from my eyes
as I floated up, up, up through that
uproarious dungeon and into blinding sunshine.

The cattle woke me as I stumbled
through the Irish hills.
And it was there I saw the mightiest oak—
and she made me a man from the warrior I was.

And in her arms I could only recall but a feeling—
or maybe a shiver.

My blistering palms peeled in the light of dusk,
and I thought of the rum in the basement by the soldier
with his gun glued to his hip.

And I wondered in rare silence
if men were meant to walk
into setting suns,
or if they were to
fight for their right to tell stories
in the warmth of their beer.