Malcolm is his name,
And when I was younger,
Farming was his game.
He milked the cows,
And plowed the fields,
And hoped & prayed,
They'd have good yields.
He had his milk route,
And tended his calves,
But most of all,
He gave us great laughs.
He told us jokes,
Which he enhanced.
And then quite often,
For us, he danced.
He contorted his face,
Like a dried-up prune.
Then wiggled his ears,
And pretended to swoon.
He's older now,
But still not too gray.
And dear mom is with him,
On this happy day.
He's aged a little,
Like a real fine wine,
But he'll never be old,
This Dad of mine.
He still tells his jokes,
Still does his dance,
Still clowns around
In his baggy Dutch pants.
He entertains Mother,
Each day of the year.
To watch them together,
We hold back a tear.
He's ninety years old now,
There is no looking back.
And none of us ever,
Would trade our "Big Mac".
~ Mrs. Chris Thomas.
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