As a sire{ for fathers}

the price of the ultimate sacrifice
in the eyes of the selfish, won't suffice

when to do or not to do is not even a question
a willing soul has no space for doubt but keeps questing

mind and patience of a god; what kills men is petty
left internally bleeding, beer-drowning sorrow,
immersed in pity

we do not cry we just bite the bullet and die
our sons follow-by; walking a thin line of truth and lie

I'm no saint nor a preacher, just a witness on this alter
I am my father's poor future; for my son' sake i dare not falter

the price of my sacrifice is paradise after the proverbial fire
weary in my toils or ecstatic in my joys as a sire

... a whispering voice 'papa do not tire'