My Father cuts a furrow, true lines does he run, br My Father cuts a furrow, no horses does he own, br My Father cut a furrow, fields hill of grass. br My Fathers furrow was wisdom, this is what he had. br To his dying day, his gait was straight and true. br My Father was not a true farmer, for the city br Was all he knew. As Father cuts a furrow, so br Does his son, I am told, the wisdom my Father br Was to pass along lay dormant, many years, br put on hold. Not till I was 78 did I realize not br much time left, to unfold, as I too was growing br old, so I write my poetry using the genes and br wisdom passed on to me. the only way to have my br stories told. As Father was to cut his furrows, so br does his son, to carry on this wisdom to everyone. br God Bless his Soul.