His body is scarred and battered
From a life of hard work and toil
He doesn’t complain; the pain, it never mattered
So long as the table had bread, milk, and potatoes in the foil.
In the winter, while we hide in bed from cold
He labors outside, chopping wood and shoveling snow
He gets up early while we sleep until the morning’s old
Not waking until he kindles a warm fire aglow.
He comes home from long work hours, but doesn’t rest
There are dishes piled high and errands to be run
He cooks all the meals, shaming a chef’s best
He hits the pillow late and rises early, work never done.
As his joints grow weary and his muscles grow tired
He just rubs some dirt in and pushes through
We rarely thank him for all he’s bled and perspired
Is he a father or a caretaker? A difference I never knew.
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