Introduction

I have never meet a race of people so willing to help others like the Irish.

Tom's Washer

Tom was an Irishman,
Who lived across from us,
When it came to helping,
He could never do enough.

You couldn't call him simple,
But he had the Irish way,
Of solving problems sideways,
Or so my dad would say.

He worked attending boilers,
But he'd taught himself to weld.
He built stuff in his garage,
And the welding mostly held.

In this garage at the end,
Dad had built a bench for him.
When he drove his car inside,
It would only just squeeze in.

To make the fit more accurate,
He'd hung with a tough of class,
A rubber washer on a piece of string,
That would hit the windshield glass.

Many times I rode with him,
His timing was so fine,
He could speed right up the drive,
And stop in the nick of time.

But then one time those kids of his,
Did I mention he had a tribe?
Good Catholic Mick's did shun "The Pill",
Fearing Father Peter's diatribe.

I suspect it was his eldest,
That connived the deed that day,
To move the washer forward,
And see what Tom would say.

But their father always gave a hand,
To anyone in need,
This day he had a passenger,
To whom Tom would demonstrate his speed.

He'd bragged about his timing,
Judging how well his car would stop,
He hadn't mentioned the washer,
That hung in his workshop.

As we speed right up the drive,
Tom's face smiled from chin to chin,
The resulting smash sure startled him.
And soon removed the grin,

But it wasn't Tom's smashed work bench,
Or his dented car he mourned,
But the damage to his Irish pride,
That left poor Tom forlorn.

Copyright; DonL
Email: donl@computermail.net