[Ronan sits back and tips the bottle to his lips. Glug, glug, glug. Wash away the feelings and the knowledge that he'll never return home again. In the quickening haze of drunkenness, a memory comes to him and he repeats it out loud:]
Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside...
[It always sounded better coming from his father, with that Irish accent of his. Less charming with Ronan's vaguely Appalachian twang. Not to mention that everything out of Ronan's mouth sounds ominous and threatening. Even poetry.]
no subject
[Ronan sits back and tips the bottle to his lips. Glug, glug, glug. Wash away the feelings and the knowledge that he'll never return home again. In the quickening haze of drunkenness, a memory comes to him and he repeats it out loud:]
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside...
[It always sounded better coming from his father, with that Irish accent of his. Less charming with Ronan's vaguely Appalachian twang. Not to mention that everything out of Ronan's mouth sounds ominous and threatening. Even poetry.]