by Con Chapman
Seamus' hands are shaking now
that once were still as stalking cats.
His face is wet with unmopped sweat;
he argues still, you wonder how,
he strays not far from where he sat.
You are forever in his debt.
Seamus hasn't got too long
before he's lowered in the grave
while we his requiem do preach.
Seamus had a gift of song—
the kind that makes a man feel brave—
that he transmuted into speech.
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To Seamus (raises glass), a stand-up guy.
Nice tribute, Con.
Thanks. He's a real-live person and a great lawyer--could talk a dog off a meat wagon.
What I said before *
You've made Seamus real to me.