His name was Easter Angel Percuoco. He was born an angel in Italy at Easter time. He was April’s sweetest child. His mother held him in her arms And said, “This is my Easter Angel.”
By eight years old, Both his parents were in heaven. By nine years old, He played the gentle violin.
Jet black hair and kind grey eyes. Italian born but spoke beautiful English. He fought in World War Two for Uncle Sam. He played his violin in Southern France. He never rode a Camel, but he smoked a lot of them.
An orphan child, but a father so proud and joyous, He loved his classics, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, And the New York Yankees. He never owned a new car, But drove the used ones with pride.
A noble man, a loyal husband, He had what I call blue collar class. Went to work every weekday Went to church every Sunday Cherished his home and his family.
Never asked for much and always gave without a grudge. He had the great Italian traits with none of the bad stereotypes. He lived not long enough. The Camels did him in Just like his brother.
Easter Angel Percuoco. Ah, but that is the English translation. In Italian, it’s Pasquale Angelo Percuoco. Put music to that name and it’s almost like an opera. And I will sing it proudly every day.
Now……….I look not back or forth But inward ever inward, Until this journey ends in death And sweet communion with my loving friend.
