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Tony K. was my grandfather,
a man most taciturn.
Tony’s verbal grandiloquence
was as sparse as it was stern.

Papa Tony was a toiler,
had strong back and chapped hands.
Immigrated to USA
and made a living off the land.

Tone and wife Lucy had a large flock,
two daughters and six sons,
and of these eight odd descendants
five achieved marriage canons.

Grandpa was getting long of tooth,
about same age as I am now,
he was waiting for a haircut
and men their daughters-in-law were putting down.

“My son’s wife? She ain’t no Einstein,”
declared Feidak from his seat.
“Swear sometimes she’s simple;
even check-book math her does defeat.”

“You think your son married a winner?
I tell you I got a thousand tales.
If stupidity was a crime?
Swear mine would spend her life in jail.”

The two men looked to Tony
thinking of his four married sons.
Figured he’d join in their complaining,
expand on how these gals all were dumb.

But old Tony he surprised ’em
as he parsed his stingy words.
Said, “All my sons married geniuses;
gals got the husbands they deserve.”

My little tale of Papa Tony
is both authentic and quite true.
And is a shining, fine example
that deserves emulation by me and you.

Tony K. was my grandfather,
a man most taciturn.
Tony’s verbal grandiloquence
was as sparse as it was stern.

Tony was far from garrulous,
preferred to sit silently and make you doubt.
But regarding Tony’s sparkling wit
this diamond’s a ten-count knockout.

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