I normally wind our tall-case clock on Sunday morning, before church, but it dawned on me while we were fixing dinner (The Squire was cooking; I was just supervising.) that I had forgotten to do so, and hustled off to take care of that little chore.
When I came back into the kitchen, I started to sing a “song” that my German grandmother used to sing when I was a kid. No, it doesn’t rhyme, and the tune, such as it is, doesn’t qualify as catchy, but maybe it was better in German than English. I dunno.
Looking through the knothole in Grandpa’s wooden leg,
Oh, who will wind the clock when I am gone?
Go get the ax; there’s a fly on Baby’s nose,
And a boy’s best friend is his mother.
The Squire just stared at me. It’s nice to know that even after forty years, I can still sca – um – surprise him.
They just don’t write songs like that anymore. (I think it’s illegal.)
thisendoftheswamp 
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