A carpenter dined night after night on a creaking table,
Like a medium skillet, his palms more shameful than his skin,
Palms in hands: hands that immolate other men's comfort at their suppers,
His children whined of discomfort to his wife like her old lappas,
Too irksome, the sound bellowed deep in their bellies.
Liberty would be meaningless if self-awareness was a cardinal sin.
But a carpenter dined night after night on a creaking table,
'Lord, bless this food and keep my country fair and stable'
The family song playing loud and clear in his head,
That box full of tools and glues underneath his bed,
To mend any cabinet, roof and door but his own,
Charity is meaningless when a man lies in a broken home.
