Generations
by J. Randal Matheny @ 2011
They called my grandpa Mr. Mac,
I know he was a Scot:
He stashed away both nail and tack,
And hoarded all he got. My father's kin were French and Brits,
Who crossed the northern sea,
Their porridge turned to Southern grits,
They passed them on to me. Then I turned south to hot Brazil,
My kids with foreign tongue;
Who knows where oxen pull their thill,
And where they'll rear their young.
I know he was a Scot:
He stashed away both nail and tack,
And hoarded all he got. My father's kin were French and Brits,
Who crossed the northern sea,
Their porridge turned to Southern grits,
They passed them on to me. Then I turned south to hot Brazil,
My kids with foreign tongue;
Who knows where oxen pull their thill,
And where they'll rear their young.
