Made from the measured cut of an oak tree,

Leather hide,

Hammer and nail, 

Sweat and blood,

Is the old wooden chair.

It's where I was cradled;

It's where i was fed;

It's where i was told stories

Right before bed.

It's where he read the newspaper,

Yelled at politicians so loud, I thought they'd heard. 

It's where he smoked;

It's where he drank.

It's where he sat to be alone;

It's where he sat with company.

And when he passed, it was where his smell lingered,

And it was where I sat to be close to him. 

Oh, i thought that chair was as immortal as I once thought he was. 

But what was born of an axe,

Died in a fire. 

Though, when cut from the tree,

The assembled pieces of wood grew roots of their own,

And as the oak's roots remain firm in the ground,

So does the chair's roots remain firm in me.