In my village, nothing much ever changes
We don't like to leave and aren't open to strangers
Jobs are passed down from father to son
And have been since our village first begun
Everyone wants to be friends with the baker's son
You need to be on good terms with the house maker's son
And the distiller's son (if you ever need a comforter)
Never, never run afoul of the son of our governor
I had trouble making friends as a child
I had to be sensible and never be wild
Yet when they coughed they'd look at me often
Knowing, that one day, I'd make their coffin
My father taught me how to guide an axe into a tree
The dead wood reincarnated in the assembly
Add to it 25 nails and (of course) a cross
Give it an extra polish after a wash
And voila. One size fits any soul.
To make them sturdy was my only goal
If it was good, my father would nod, put a hand on my shoulder
As we marked a potential client in pencil in our folder
We didn't know. But work gets to you in the end
There's a reason the undertaker and his son struggle for friends
But it has to be done. And so to make sure we get paid
I am simply another son taking up the family trade
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https://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-family-trade.html
