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Papa was a huntin' man Tromped thru the woods With a gun in his hand Fierce hunter. Fiercer man Papa was a soldier man Marched thru the battle With a gun in his hand Fierce soldier. Fiercer man Papa was a hurtin' man In the dead of the night With a spear in his hand-- He pierced my soul --Janice Bell Father I remember how I first saw my father. He was a big man, with big hands. He staggered a little. Dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and wide tie. Always wore a wide-brimmed fedora, Cocked to one side. Cowering, small, I hid in the shadows. To me, he was a giant, Loud-voiced, slurred speech, Curved over my little Mom. Hiding together, I comfort my baby sister. Shhh, don't cry, he'll see us. Shhh, soon he'll be gone, Gone down the road again. --Twyla Swiger Vincent
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 1997
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