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My father had a Randall knife |
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My mother gave it to him |
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When he went off to WWII |
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To save us all from ruin |
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If you've ever held a Randall knife |
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Then you know my father well |
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If a better blade was ever made |
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It was probably forged in hell |
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My father was a good man |
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A lawyer by his trade |
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And only once did I ever see |
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Him misuse the blade |
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It almost cut his thumb off |
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When he took it for a tool |
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The knife was made for darker things |
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And you could not bend the rules |
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|
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He let me take it camping once |
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On a Boy Scout jamboree |
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And I broke a half an inch off |
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Trying to stick it in a tree |
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I hid it from him for a while |
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But the knife and he were one |
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He put it in his bottom drawer |
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Without a hard word one |
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|
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There it slept and there it stayed |
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For twenty some odd years |
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Sort of like Excalibur |
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Except waiting for a tear |
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|
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My father died when I was forty |
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And I couldn't find a way to cry |
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Not because I didn't love him |
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Not because he didn't try |
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I'd cried for every lesser thing |
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For Whiskey, pain and beauty |
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But he deserved a better tear |
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And I was not quite ready |
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|
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So we took his ashed out to sea |
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And poured `em off the stern |
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And threw the roses in the wake |
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Of everything we'd learned |
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When we got back to the house |
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They asked me what I wanted |
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Not the lawbooks not the watch |
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I need the things he's haunted |
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|
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My hand burned for the Randall knife |
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There in the bottom drawer |
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And I found a tear for my father's life |
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And all that it stood for |