As in the past, gloves still cut by hand,
One pair at a time, like a tailored suit.
Much like father but he was not as grand.
He was more or less a leathered brute.
Cowhide or tanned hides of quality leather.
The only hides that were tanned were ours.
Hiding under steps all huddled together,
Sitting there for what seemed like hours.
Gloves that guard between bare hand and touch.
Gloved to protect hands against bitter cold.
Father was the cold and he touched too much,
But not a word of that have we ever told.
Although his gloves worn soft and smooth.
Smooth he wasn’t, but harsh and tough.
Like nails to our backside; it was his truth.
And we were trained for the hard stuff.