Dirt

[couchgrouch]

DirtWell, Mama useta tell us, that Daddy's angry moodscame from sun caked on his face, and mud caked on his bootscos his hard soul met its match, in those fields of rockmost men are made from dust but, he's a chip off the old blockand although Daddy had the, better hat on his headthat scarecrow in the cornfield, sure looked better fedso when Mama set the table, bowed her head and said graceDaddy'd spear the biggest, spud for his own platethen he'd climb that staircase, with no kiss goodnightbut Mama swore it was mud, that made him treat her likedirt...humble and low, trampled 'neath our feetit's funny how sod, is the bed of ev'ry seedand from birth to labor and deaththe vessel for our ev'ry breath is dirton his last game in high school, Dad lost his scholarshipgot dogpiled on the goal-line, and somehow broke his hipand now he rises, with dawn's glow to the eastand his poor hip starts achin', when Autumn's in the breezeafter Mama'd knit us, sweaters for the Fallif some yarn was left, she'd make herself a shawlshe sit there and shiver, in cool November airif it looked like she was nappin', she was just deep in prayerbeggin' for the tender mercies, of the Lord abovewhile Dad fought his plowmule, both at the mercy ofdirt...humble and low, trampled 'neath our feetit's funny how sod, is the bed of ev'ry seedand from birth to labor and deaththe vessel for our ev'ry breath is dirtwell, we found poor Mama, half a shawl in her lapthough her eyes were open, she'd fin'lly got her napnow she's in a clay jar, by Daddy's easy chairhe wrapped her in that shawl, to keep out winter airand when Daddy's shakin', off his farmin' bootsit makes him realize mud, is both life's roots and fruits'fore he mounts that staircase, he blows Ma a kiss goodnightit wasn't till she was ashes, he stopped treating her like...dirt...Mama useta tell us, that Daddy's angry moodscame from sun caked on his face, and mud caked on his boots(c)2006 Robert George