He’d wear a lambswool v-neck,
or navy cardigan,
with socks pulled high,
nestling in polished leather lace ups.
There’d be pleats in his slacks,
a flat cap on his brow,
shotgun in the armpit,
still warm from the whip of the game.
Upper tax bracket boy,
from the age of 21,
he’d sell his soul for a dime,
while caring little for what those pennies could buy.
His parents’ story
would be richer than his own.
A tale of landed gentry,
who know status, and the art of conversation.
A champion of capitalism,
he’d be Blue through and through,
with a predisposition,
to standing and saluting during the national anthem.
He’d listen to his lady,
but rule her.
The man, after all,
is King, and royalty holds the crown.
A church-going Christian,
he’d do marriage by God’s book,
and communion on a Sunday.
‘Jerusalem’ would be an all time favourite tune.
His dream dinner party:
Churchill, the late Queen Mother,
Maggie, Nelson, Bush senior,
Mountbatten, Montgomery, and the local vicar.
A man of voracious appetite,
and lover of the drip feed tipple,
flesh would dominate his every meal.
Indeed, that’s the man my father would have chosen.
I know you’re still looking for him, Pops,
but you do know it ain’t gonna happen?