Hands of a man tell a story,
there is no great mystery;
provides some light into their lives
delves into their history.
My grandpa was a farmer,
his hands were rough as a cob;
strong and callused, fingernails split
just like when he axed a log.
Rarely was grandpa arestin'
he arose at the breakin' a day;
built a fire in the wood~burnin' stove
roused tha cows n gave em some hay.
After tha milkin', breakfast
hot bisquits with eggs n more;
grandpa would bless tha fixins
pile up his plate galore!
Daddy's on the other hand,
show'd he worked another trade;
"Attorney~at~Law" read the shingle,
what a difference my daddy made.
His hands penned many 'To~Do' lists,
each day another there'd be;
his middle name was "organized"
life arranged One~Two~Three:-)
Daddy's hands were a pair a teachers,
when lessons we kids were due;
he wielded that belt with proficiency
One~Two~Three licks n we knew!
When it came ta fixin' tha plumbin',
or tha toaster n clock n such;
brother's hands would just be aitchin'
"Mr. Fix~It", he had tha touch:-)
Hands of my daddy n brothers,
were just good as good could be;
at fishin' n huntin' ya better believe
winners they were ~ One~Two~Three!
Yes, hands of a man tell a story,
each different for the whole race;
just shake tha hand of any man,
'tis clear as the nose on yur face:-)