Robert J. O’Brien, III
The red of her hair is mingled with silver,
And her I’ll not share, no more than a delver
Of jewels in ground will talk in the air
Of the treasure he’s found, when others are there.
The bones of her face are structured like Hepburn’s,
But despite old Spence Tracy I’ve got no concerns.
For I am her Irish and wavy-haired lad
And she’s married her wish and we’ve got our own pad.
She’s a Prod and a Swede, and Prussian to boot,
While I am a bent-kneed R. C. to the root.
But always our bickering ends with our laughter,
And warm is our wicker bed under wood rafters.
And may we have babies, at least two or three,
May they grow into ladies and gentlemen free,
May they bicker and laugh with us and with each other,
May they find, as I have, a perfect another.
And may our Christ’s Masses all gleam in the dark
With Dickensian merriment, antic, and spark,
While from our sky flashes that traveling star:
May it act as our ferryman, guiding us far.