"The Everlasting Tale of the Toms."
Here is a poem about generations of the Sawyer spirit, passed down like an old, cherished, slightly mischievous instruction manual for life:
The title hangs in the air, a whisper, a sigh,
A code that we live by, my father and I.
"The Everlasting Tale of the Toms," it’s the name,
Of the lineage bound by the same restless flame.
It ain’t carved in marble, no scripture or creed,
Just an old, quiet knowledge, the planting of seed.
It lives in the grin that we share in our blood,
In the way that we're drawn to the river in flood.
Grandpa Tom taught me on that ol' river shore,
How to trade off a chore for a marble, and more.
"The trick," he would whisper, his eyes full of light,
"Is making the labor feel easy and right."
His father before him, beneath the same sun,
Taught him how to spin a tall tale just for fun.
Generations of mischief, a glorious school,
A masterclass taught on how not to be a fool.
We learn how to spot the "Becketts" in town,
The ones who follow rules and frown, frown, frown.
We learn how to charm with a soft, easy word,
The most plausible lie that you’ve ever yet heard.
It’s apple pie innocence, wrapped in a lie,
A genius for trouble that money can’t buy.
We don’t steal or cheat, no, we’re smarter than that,
We just know where the cat's going to catch the fat rat.
Now I’m teaching my boy, as the sun dips below,
The secrets of trouble, the rhythm and flow.
He’s the new wild spark, the next link in the chain,
Ready to bring a sweet, beautiful rain.
The game keeps on spinning, the spirit holds fast,
A Sawyer’s adventure is built to outlast.
In the grin of the child, the knowledge I see,
The "Everlasting Tale" lives in him, just like me.
DrummerDave26
