His profession.
Blacksmith and poor at it,
Received naught but ridicule,
A novice's pupil they said,
Still his jokes were a commodity,
It kept him paid.
Poverty was there for us but,
Not for me.
He'd take mother and I to read,
Beneath an old apple tree,
The family's fourth relative,
To read an old storybook,
That changed each time.