When I was just a little boy,
my father held my hand.
That always made me feel so grand.
He worked so hard for many years,
I was provided for.
Something I was oft to ignore.
As years went on and I grew up,
I thought I knew it all.
Must've been like talking to a wall.
He always told me what to do,
tried to correct my way
I tried hard not to disobey.
Later, I moved out on my own,
continued with my life.
I had a job and then a wife.
Now I had children of my own.
When they weren't acting nice,
I often asked dad for his advice.
When I had an other problem,
I knew just who to see.
Whatever he told me, I would agree.
And then we were just hanging out,
to watch a Packer game.
Good friends is what we became.
My family then received the news,
my dad was getting sick.
His health declined then, very quick.
No longer did he have his strength,
I wished he'd be all right.
But slowly he did lose his fight.
I cried the day he passed away,
I'm sure you'll understand.
But I was there to hold his hand.