The gentle drawl of Guy Clark's voice
beckoned me from sleep,
saying that when his father died
he'd found no tear to weep.

It wasn't that his dad was mean,
nor that he didn't try,
Guy couldn't find a worthy tear--
he wasn't yet ready to cry.

The blade was broken off the knife
a half inch from the tip.
He could almost feel its  jagged edge,
recalling that camping trip

His dad had let him take the knife
to a Boy Scout Jamboree
it was there he broke the blade tip off
throwing at a tree

That knife had served at daddy's side
when he went off to war,
saving his life in combat.
Of that he'd say  no more.

His father never said a word--
put the broken knife away.
It rested in a dresser drawer
until his dying day.

It was only when Guy's hand had found
and closed around the handle
that he knew, amid the sudden tears
Dad had loved him more than Randall.