My father had a Randall knife
My mother gave it to him
When he went off to World War II
To save us all from ruin
Now if you've ever held a Randall knife
You know my father well
And if a better blade was ever made
It was probably forged in hell
My father was a good man
He was a lawyer by his trade
And only once did I ever see
Him misuse the blade, hmm
Well, it almost cut his thumb off
When he took it for a tool
Now the knife was made for darker things
And you could not bend the rules
Well, he let me take it camping once
On a Boy Scout jamboree, hah
I broke a half an inch off
Trying to stick it in a tree
Well, I hid it from him for a while
But the knife and he were one
And he put it in his bottom drawer
Without a hard word one
There it slept and there it stayed
For 20 some odd years
Sort of like Excalibur
Except waiting for a tear
♪
My father died when I was 40
And I couldn't find a way to cry
Not because I didn't love him
Not because I didn't try
Well, I'd cried for every lesser thing
For whiskey, pain and beauty
But he deserved a better tear
And I was not quite ready
So we took his ashes out to sea
And poured 'em off the stern
And then threw the roses in the wake
Of everything we'd learned
And when we got back to the house
They asked me what I wanted
Not the law books, not the watch
I need the things he's haunted
Oh, my hand burned for the Randall knife
There in the bottom drawer
And I found a tear for my father's life
And all that it stood for
♪
Thank you very much
This is the song I wrote with friend named Roger Murrow
It's called "Immigrant Eyes"