The Old Whittler
Old man sits just whittlin' in the muted shade
Ne'er boasting, bragging of the things his crusty hands have made.
Ne'er spilling poison words about the worst of men
What they stole now and who they killed then.
The old master is he with mind so peaceful
To rob, lie, or brag to him would be awful.
Many things of beauty from wood he's created
Pleasing the buer and price ne'er debated.
Sunrise to sunset, after morning prayer he sits alone
Whittlin' a life for his faithful wife and the love she's shown.
Ne'er a whimper. Ne'er a tear, just shavings and strokes
He's touching feeling the vision he's seen without evil, laughing or jokes.
A whittler is he from boyhood age of ten
When starving was near and taking most men.
He farmed his sod, gave the devil a nod
And whittled to avoid God's chastening rod.
A whittler he dies
A whittler he's lived.
Ne'er a cheat or shameful defeat
Just a rock at his head and name at his feet.
"Dad, I remember what you said when I was young: we are known not for our words, but by what we do."— Kenneth Avery
© 2016 Kenneth Avery
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