Some fathers favored golf clubs,
Some hunted, some caught fish.
My father had a saxophone,
And this was his dish.
He played it in the cellar,
Not loud, but soft and sweet.
Choice standards were his repertoire
No father could beat.
He played recitals solo,
And his music went up above.
Passersby heard free of charge;
No man knew greater love.
Sometimes he hit a wrong note;
It never changed his pace.
I tried to learn the sax,
But never made first base.
For hours on end he practiced,
And never budged or tired.
He was the best musician!
And I am still inspired.
But everything was “first chair,”
Not saxophone alone.
And so he built our spirit,
And never picked a bone.
My father is a good man;
No finer will I know.
His music still is playing
Back home, so sweet and low.