#215 The Family Trade

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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