Gentleman’s Man. Or, Eulogy for Dad.

The boy working class, and covered in mud.
Was mined highland cast and Viking blood.
Dropped school for tools, with tunnel mining in play.
Night's booze, friendly fools, and cut roads by the day.
By big boss mans smile, they burst through the clay.
Took a man by the mile, cutting cove, as they say.
Saw the dead mans wig, at world’s end, Dusky Sound.
So gave up the dig, for the code, he was found.

A knack for the tackle, this boy from the land,
shined free from the shackle, with scrum ball in hand.
For Otago one day, but ‘vs Marist for firsts.
Hard buggers in play, the Petone man’s curse.
Though never to yield, this boxing red Celt,
was sent from the field, and expecting the belt.
Naught you have done, old man pacing about.
For you are my son, ‘tis red mist you have felt.

On from the game, too old for it now.
Still battle he’ll claim, Crown Law will be how.
The underdog's champ, the vicious defender,
no mercy for you ‘ye pompous pretender.
Grey matter tuned brighter, by stoic code kin.
The writer, and the fighter, the philosopher's grin.
Conman repent, for the truth he will pry.
Common man represent, to the day that he dies.

Ran Coast unto Coast, cast Ironman too.
Told never to boast, win or lose, through and through.
Raging blizzards and all, and now hiding the cough.
To the mountains! He’d call. Still bastards to knock off.
His last breath, and deaths kiss. It’s the moon for you son.
And the stars if you miss, then still you have won.
Why the end must death deem, to lift fog on his worth?
He’s been fanning your dreams, since the day of your birth.

Way-finder, lead carver, dear head of our clan,
I love you, my father, your son, and biggest fan.
Though lying here now, a titan once stood.
All us, we must bow. As he would, if he could.
Well what more can I say, to honour who fought?
Than to put him away, in the way that he taught.
So it’s back to the mud! In number ones, and deadpan.
He was Viking by blood! This gentle, man's man.