June 1, 2010
This is a poem to gramps.
Whose Christmas tree lights are shotgun shells and the star an orange huntin’ hat
Who can spend all day on his property without ever getting bored

Who has more broken lawnmowers than could ever be fixed

Who made a walk-in safe for his shotguns

Who spends his mornings cuttin’ wood

Who is always there for me when I need him.
Here’s to you gramps.

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