My grandpa once told me on one occasion,
As he gave me a wink of the eye,
"Son, old hammers don't fit in boxes anymore."
Little did I know his reasoning confession,
Until he bit off more then he could swallow
Of his tobacco and chewing skills.
Grandma was on the porch snapping green beans,
Her dress folded over what I thought a prayer book.
Humming some old southern ditty.
Flashing her gum and swatting gnats,
Chewing beetle and spitting in the grass,
Her varicose veins turned to green.
Granny had lookers, I had animal crackers,
And grandpa's lock turned to rust,
But they had love.
Those were the good old days of summer,
When old hammers had boxes and granny had teeth.
I counted animal crackers, before I eat.
Now they are passed and gone to their summer
And I still hear my granny whisper to me.
"Grandpa can't find the key."
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