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    dots Submission Name: He Was a Brute of a Mandots

    Author: ErgoIgo
    Elite Ratio:    3.32 - 585/676/277
    Words: 374
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 1008
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2443


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    dotsHe Was a Brute of a Mandots

    The air in the bar
    took on a different hue
    When he made
    his presence known.
    He was brute of a man
    and everyone knew
    It was best just
    to leave him alone.

    He’s weathered many
    battles in his time
    Some he won and some
    he came up short.
    Scars are his medals,
    he finds them no crime
    Just don’t ask him
    for a detailed report.

    A man of few words
    and simple needs is he
    He speaks when
    it’s necessary to cope.
    He’s comfortable and
    used to his own company
    With his demons
    he’s learned how to grope.

    If you look closely,
    as close as he’ll allow
    You can see that he was
    once a handsome galoot.
    Always standing his ground,
    to no man he’d bow
    Can rearrange features
    on the wrong end of a boot.

    He doesn’t come by
    all that often,
    it’s just as well
    The guys in the bar give
    him a very wide berth.
    As far as he was concerned
    they could all go to hell
    He’d drink his fill,
    then go back to work the earth.

    Yes, he was a brute of a man,
    happy in his own bubble
    Worked a small patch of land
    on the outskirts of town.
    He ate what he raised,
    sold to travelers for his trouble
    Saved the money for the
    Irish whiskey he would down.

    Then all of a sudden
    he was no longer
    seen in the bar
    The bottle of Irish whisky
    developed a coating of dust.
    His legs weren’t so bad
    that they wouldn’t
    carry him the far
    Maybe this year’s crop
    had been a financial bust.

    Folks got to whisperin
    ‘bout Old Henry
    not bein round
    They wondered
    if something foul had come
    callin on him.
    A few of the braver or drunker
    barflys headed outta town
    Towards the small spread,
    to see Henry,
    call it a whim.

    Well Old Henry was a loner
    right down to the end
    of his days
    What the posse found
    made them wish they
    had never come ‘round
    He had dug his own grave,
    staying so true to his
    singular ways
    he lay there uncovered
    except for bugs,
    six feet deep in the ground.

    Submitted on 2008-09-10 20:45:08     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    3: meh!
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    ||| Comments |||
      Excellent tale! Here's a drop of Irish Whiskey to ole Henry, even though I quit drinking 20+ years ago.

    Enjoyable tale, Pete!
    | Posted on 2008-09-10 00:00:00 | by Ron Cole | [ Reply to This ]

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    January 10 07
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