My Dad and I My dad and I-we think alike,  He knows just what I mean Before I even say a word He reads, well, in between.  My dad and I-we like to fish Or build a model plane,  Or fix a broken chair or two Or just a windowpane.  My dad and I-we know the score Of every single game;  Sometimes he’s really busy, too But he takes me just the same.  My dad and I-we go swimming too,  Each year and sometimes twice.  My dad and I-we do everything;  My dad-he’s really nice. My Dad’s Hands Bedtime came, we were settling down,  I was holding one of my lads.  As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight:  My hands. . .they looked like my dad’s!  I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,  there was always a cracked nail or two.  And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,  his thumb was a beautiful blue!  They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,  as strong as a carpenter’s vice.  But holding a scared little boy at night,  they seemed to me awfully nice!  The sight of those hands - how impressive it was  in the eyes of his little boy.  Other dads’ hands were cleaner, it seemed  (the effects of their office employ).  I gave little thought in my formative years  of the reason for Dad’s raspy mitts:  The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,  rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!  Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,  when one day my time is done.  The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands  will pass on to the hands of my son.  I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there  or the hammer that just seemed to slip.  I want most of all when my son takes my hand,  to feel that love lies in the grip.