Fathers Pride
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I’m the prince with calloused palms
up at dawn with stifled yawns; pulling on boots
feeding pigs and herding cows - stuck in mud, it’s raining now
and as I plough, I dream of life... not on a farm
of white walled castles crowned in gold (like the tales told of old)
where beautiful princesses dance and laugh
(with roaring fires in their hearths) blowing kisses at princes
brave and bold - none of them shivering, miserably cold
but dreams are dreams, and so I plough
heir to acres; fit and well (and down in the village, there is this girl)
I have no castle, but I’ll ask for her hand
in time, a son, and new prince of this land
Copyright © Marcus Whitnell | Year Posted 2023
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