Parent

A thousand miles our fathers walk;

A thousand clothes our mothers wash;
So to put meats on the rack;
Clean clothes on our backs.

Nary a reward they ask;
Nary a complaint they voice;

The smiles of their children their joy;
Their laughter a soothing oil.

Till bones bent and muscles weak;
They see them marry and babies born;
So their mantle they pass it on;
And hum life's splendid retiring song.