The piper played “Dark Island.” He stood tall on a small hill in the center of the cemetery.
And my mother wept over the death of a man she’d divorced ten years ago.
When the piper played “Amazing Grace,” it made it all right for everybody else to cry.
I remember the first thing me and my father ever agreed on: ” Them Beatles know how to do a fucking song,” he’d said.
All the way from Glasgow he brought us.
He built trucks here in Flint. Until some fucker had a gun instead of a knife.
Manslaughter is the charge on the bastard.
I gave my nephew Andy the money to pay the bail. Then I sent Andy back to Scotland.
Now I have a receipt. And an address. And a knife.