The Man in Uniform

My young father in his sailor’s uniform
That Man in Uniform

In his uniform, he stands fit & thin.
If you look real hard, you can see his grin. 
He has taken form, shaped by the norm. 

His spine tail to tip, he keeps straight & tall. 
His mind is aligned, his strength will not fall. 
He has studied & trained, he’s ready to sail. 

His shoes wink at you, his work is worthy. 
The waxy luster a polished clue 
about all he’ll do, with pride & no bluster. 

His belt buckle shines, sparkles at your eye. 
He’s a sharp diamond, that’s truth & no lie. 
A stone that will not give a sigh or a cry. 

His hair’s cut so short, gives you the idea 
that he finds his way each & every day
from many a snare, with greatest of care. 

His pant leg creases, & the shirt sleeves too
shout out about order, that never ceases. 
oh, yes, & the need, liberty releases. 

The ribbon & ore, medals across chest, 
they always attest, he lined up abreast. 
His foot to pedal, his legs toward shore. 

That man, a sailor guy, 17 enlisted 
a young seaman clean, of the yes-sir clan, 
dressed in navy & white, oh my! 

Rose up in the ranks, serving for 30+, 
a true commander that man never shrank. 
I dare say with glee, That Man, That Man, 

He is My Father. 

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