Father Of Them All

Tap the barometer, pour the coffee — some men never change. You tap that barometer every morning like the weather owes you the truth, pocketknife sharp in your left front pocket since nineteen sixty-two. The garage still smells like two-stroke fuel and wood shavings on the floor, where you taught three generations what patience is for. Dad learned it from you. I learned it from him. Happy Father's Day to the father of them all — the oak the whole yard grew from, still standing tall. Every dad around this table is doing his best impression of you. Raise 'em up — to the father of them all. You whistle the same four notes coming in so the screen door knows it's you, keep peppermints for the little ones and let 'em win at horseshoes too. You never said much about love out loud — you just fixed what we brought you broke, drove four hours for a recital and called it a Sunday drive. Dad learned it from you. I learned it from him. Happy Father's Day to the father of them all — the oak the whole yard grew from, still standing tall. Every dad around this table is doing his best impression of you. Raise 'em up — to the father of them all. Someday some kid not born yet will tap a barometer just like that, and won't know why it feels like home. That's you. That's where it's at. Happy Father's Day to the father of them all — the oak the whole yard grew from, still standing tall. Every dad around this table is doing his best impression of you. Raise 'em up — to the father of them all. Tap the barometer, pour the coffee — don't ever change, old man.