Abba

The man I love has caloused hands

from working so hard.

His shoes are filthy

because he’s always on his feet.

His smells sour . . .

the factory has no fans.

He doesn’t buy me roses

and drives a rusty car,

but he got that stranger something to eat.

I couldn’t go to boarding school,

but he pushed me on the swing

and told me stories when I could not sleep.

I want to be just like my Daddy.

By Martha L Shaw – ©  5-19-2015