I used to wonder why my Dad, Should lack the things that others had. Why he could never get away, and take an honest holiday.
Why he seldom found the movies fun, And once fell sound asleep in one. Why our old car he held so dear, When neighbors swappped theirs in each year. I wondered why his shoulders drooped, And why it made him puff to stoop. Why he could never have things new, And why his hands more toilworn grew. But most of all I wondered why, The merry twinkle in his eye,
But now I know why my Dad was bent, Why all his money freely spent On others. Why his clothes were old, Why faithful in the storm or cold, He labored. Why his hands were tough, And why his cheek was often rough. Why his work and daily life, Contained so much of ill and strife.
I know he did these things for me. That I might better fare than he. His hands were toilworn for my sake, That I might of his love partake. He feared no toil nor circumstance, That gave his boy a better chance. And my own life has helped to place, Each wrinkle in his kindly face. And all I am or may become, Is fruit of things that Dad has done.
Ah, yes, I now know why my Dad, Dispensed with things that others had.
He might have better fared had he, More selfish been cared less for me. He might have shirked without restraint, Or of his lot made loud complaint.
Or in a quest for sympathy, Extolled the things he did for me.
Yet as a boy I never knew, The things for me my Dad went through. Today his graying locks become, A silver badge of duty done.
And now I do not wonder why, The merry twinkle in his eye,
Should deeper, merrier, seem to be, When e’re his glance encounters me.
For since I have a little lad, I better understand my Dad.
