And The Choir Sings Along

My Papa was a big ole barrel-chested man

With crooked hands of molten steel.

His voice rang loud and high and deep

He sang off key behind the beat.

He preached the brimstone and the fire

On sunny Sunday afternoons

While choirs swooned the lofting

And the acolyte’s asleep.

My Papa was a big ole man.

My Papa  swaggered in his step

And kept his presence sweetened by the light

And all did love him and delight

To shadow in his home.

Yes, Papa was a big ole man

Built high and right

And strong.

The choir sings along.

He’s long returned to ash and dust . . .

The choir sings along.

My Papa was a big ole barrel-chested man

With eyes that shined like daffodils

Beneath a leathered brow so weathered

Hard against the years.

And here, grandson lays dreaming

Of the man that used to be

And still can see him watching

As he lays himself to sleep.

My Papa was a big ole man.