My dad was not without love... but a cliched Irish mother****er when he wanted to be. Drinker, brawler, all that stuff. Never shed a tear. Saw weakness everywhere. But he had this thing for poems... poetry. Reading them, quoting them. Probably thought it rounded him off, you know. His way of apologizing, I guess. And there was one that hung over the desk in his den. It was only when I was a lot older, I realized he had written it. It was untitled, four lines. I read it at his funeral. "Once more into the fray. Into the last good fight I'll ever know. Live and die on this day. Live and die on this day."