Volume 5, Number 3 - Spring 1974
Tis good to write the poems,
In praises of the women,
And sing their virtues to the skies
Until their heads are swimmin
To tell about the wonderous love
Of sweetheart, wife or sister,
But I would write a verse of one
Whom some address as Mister.
I have a dad out on the farm,
The finest one I know.
Hes kept the old home going,
And kept the hearth aglow.
Hes seen that meat was in the house,
And flour was in the bin,
That food was there for hungry mouths,
When the day was at an end.
And when I drive up to the gate,
And gaze out on the farm,
I know that somewhere bout the place
Is a heart and hand thats warm.
He might be at the milk house,
He might be at the barn,
He might be in the pasture,
Or some field out on the farm.
At last when I have found him,
And we have done the chores,
We light our pipes before the fire,
And talk our problems oer.
The younger children gather round,
With eager hearts and eyes,
To ask a thousand questions,
With a million whats? and whys?
Although his temples now are gray,
From years spent on the farms,
His heart within is just as young,
As the children in his arms.
For he will listen to the talk,
Of little girls and boys,
When I would grow impatient,
And cuss the bloomin noise.
I think the questions foolish,
But father understands,
He wants the little minds to grow,
The same as little hands.
And so each childish question
Receives some glad reply,
When I declare it tiresome,
So much of what? and why?
So you may praise the women
For the good things that they do.
And its nice to praise the sweethearts,
For their love so good and true.
Tis good to praise the mothers,
For the moments they make glad,
But while youre praising all of these,
Ill give some praise to Dad.
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