The Randall Knife

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'll 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
Well, it almost cut his thumb off
When he took it for a tool
The knife was made for darker things
You could not bend the rules

Well, he let me take it camping once
On a Boy Scout jamboree
And 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
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 he didn't try
Well, I'd cried for every lesser thing
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

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