My Pap's Right Arm

    
   "My Pap's Right Arm"
   
   Birthed with mighty steel in Pittsburgh, my Pap, the son of a Serbian immigrant dubbed Dragan Radulovic, was talk; plus, imperative action and walk.    
   As Schwarzenegger said as he hung the little man over the cliff in the movie Commando:  "I warn you--this is my weak arm."  Pap held his boss out a second story window by his legs; furthermore, he was put on Haldol, due to his friendly nature and arctic-blue eyes of justice and peace kissing; specifically, he was bullied, yet took no shit when pushed to the maximum limit, snapping and morphing into concrete iron.  
   Ultimately, they took him back to work, and he was a teacher to me and loved Tesla, having many articles on the Serbian genius who did outshine Edison, though in humility, hung out with Mark Twain, and had a mustache like the dandy Proust.  
   Pap re-forged his name from Radulovic to Radulovich, and told the lady at the bank (I was there) that he was Russian.  I asked him:  "Pap, why did you say you were Russian.?"  He responded:  "Cause then they're afraid of you."  Moreover, the Serbians are cousins to the Russians, as Clinton found out with Boris Yeltsin. 
   My Pap was my Saint Joseph--terror of demons, as the Litany goes.  Not once did I mess with him, for he would've broke my neck.  I love and adore his eternal spirit in a bold and illuminated Christ, strongly.