A glass of whiskey in hand,
He would tower over my sleeping frame and command,
Undivided attention at midnight,
The calls would begin by twilight,
"What do you want from the airport?",
"Toys for Riaan and food for you?"
As we'd drift into a delicious sleep,
He'd enter the house with a bag full of treats,
On our blue lounger he'd plonk,
With a glass of whiskey and smoke,
Exhausted beyond recognition,
Yet clear on his mission,
Stories of work and people,
He painted a rosy picture, while I sensed evil,
A couple of months later he was no more,
His whiskey bottles are probably in the store.
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