Dad's Lullaby

Sir Robert Mansfield

A master of nicknames--mine was Hez--
he wore a Robbie roby,
fashioned of plaid flannel blue and gray,
and sang of a shiny pony
as he paced the hall of our ‘60’s ranch,
my febrile head at rest on his shoulder.

A savior from sickness and avengers,
in the Smokies he gunned our Impala at the boulder
to keep us safe from Chief Falling Rock and his mob.
“Only once in your life tell off a boss.”
So much advice from a man named Rob
there’s an eponymous book, his Rules of Order.

A city boy allergic to the farm,
at the track he explained all things pari-mutuel,
not my musings on cell division.
And he bought his form at a package store in Buechel.
Though in school he studied the catechism,
the nuns they cracked his knuckles with rulers.
His hands never healed and his joints were his fate.

A Southern man in blue seersucker,
his white Cadillac with the “Go Cats” plate, a fave.
The scourge, it put my father too soon to the grave.



Go to sleep-y, little baby/
Go to sleep-y, little baby/
When you wake/
You'll patty-patty cake/
And ride a shiny little pony.