Stick to the Sticks

[couchgrouch]

Stick to the SticksIn the sticks of west Texas, farming's always dryDad barely scratched the surface, of just scraping bycos a fence and some chickens, ain't much of a farma Tuff Shed fulla fruit bats, ain't a milkcow barnand mesquite's not a gardeneach night after supper, he'd grab a smoke and a drinklisten to the haunted squeaking, of our old porch swinggrass grew wild on the hillside, but Dad wouldn't plant therefor him one sign of growing, somehow felt more than fairit was a bargain I'd earned a free ticket to collegethough I was a third generation hickDad knew wisdom was better than knowledgeand said I should stick to the sticksDad's back was like cowhide, his hands were coarse n roughhis pride wore their callouses, like calfskin glovesbut one night on that porchswing, secret hands made it swayDad's Winston burned to ashes, as he slipped awayafter a life of good worksnow tobacco and whiskey, was all he called resthavin' the world on his shoulders, took its toll on his chestbut in heaven's hammock, made from knotty pineDad was surely happy, when rivers of timecame out of the woodworklike steam slips through a gasketthe soul's got its own tricksI know Dad's long gone from that casketjust bones are made to stick to the stickslately after sundown, it's quiet on the porchfor some funny reason, that swing don't squeak no moreit's still just stone n pebbles, underneath my plowbut with both Mom n Dad there, that hill's even greener nowI never touched whiskey or Winstonsafter seeing how Daddy got sickfarms are better schools of life than Princetonso for now I'll stick to the sticks(c)2005 Robert George