Grandad sat,

Grandad sat,

Wreathed in smoke

Tendrils writhing

Serpents rising

Regaling the assembled

With stories of the front

The face

The pithead

The mighty fall

He smelled of Ogden’s

Or St Bruno

The pipe

A mighty weapon

Wielded, jabbed and poked

Emphasising the import

Of his words

Especially when he moved on

To the bible

When the chair was a pulpit

We were the flock

I was Peter the Rock.

He turned me into stone

Which fell all around

As the roof came down

His crew crushed.

He would tear up

Every time.

We were no better

His satanic majesty

Citrus and Peroque

We were pawns

Fauns

Lambs to his slaughter

Never slow to say

He had wished

My dad had been a daughter

Better to take care of him

In his old age.

Black lung

And a panic attack took him

None too soon

But that’s the devil in me.

I once tried a pipe

It always smelled so good

It ruined my throat.

I was only fifteen

I couldn’t speak

Sick as a dog for a week

I never tried it again,

Vomit is a good deterrent.

My dad’s dad

A Calvinist zealot

Fundamentally flawed,

A bigot.

Was so righteous he could

Beat Satan to the punch

Or so he said

But made a devil out of me

Instead.