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DUWARD AND THE CANADIAN MEAT CLEAVER
I had an old friend who floated down the river.
He was pushing seventy, but he and his black hound, Misty, still had fun looking at the girls. Well, Duward had fun anyway. Duward used to stop, drink a few beers, spin a yarn or two, then float away. He found out I collected old things, so next float, he brought me something. When I protested, he said his kids and grandkids did not appreciate history and to hell with them. My sentiments exactly, Duward. Anyway, years floated by behind Duward, and then one day, he floated in with a meat cleaver. This is that story.
DUWARD AND THE CANADIAN MEAT CLEAVER
Old D.W. floated with Misty the dog,
Stopping to visit since we were good friends.
Stories he had, always entertaining,
Like artesian well, his flow never ends.
Children were punks, the same as their kids,
None liked Duward’s stories, nasty antiques.
Never visited dad or grandfather,
D.W. wrote family off, labeled them freaks.
Knew tales came, as canoe hove into sight,
Plus, Duward brought old things over the years.
I listened while living history talked,
We laughed together, drank up a few beers.
Set of falls here, sugar turnip knives there,
Duward never knew till tool came to hand,
Then one day, in drifts grampa’s meat cleaver
With a tale of murder, in the north-land.
Grandfather crossed great sea to Canada,
Brought along his hard-won butchering skill.
Mounty tried to arrest grandad up there,
Quick move to U.S., cleaver used to kill.
Hangs on my wall, not the least of treasure,
I’m sure Duward did not tell a whopper.
Mounty came in second, fight to the death,
Gramps immigrated with his meat chopper.
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