handsome rugged wayward eyes cuts a suffragist down to size
nothing edible in his beard, never a soul has called him weird
even bikers ask his mind to tell them where the soul to find
he just looks back to a land, a time when more was in his hand
never been a tool he couldn’t use to show a boy he shouldn’t
tobacco’s been a friend of his, but never a smoke has run his biz
he’ll get up when the moment’s ripe and make a rascal re-sheathe his knife
Three countries have known his piercing eye, but none have wished the man would die
His bark is gentle, his fists don’t tremble, but what you respect his features resemble
he asketh no one for respect, but show it not, good chance your’e wrecked
for storms they brew in quiet patches, where the sea is silent, till someone scratches.
