The Randall Knife

My father had a Randall knife
 My mother gave it to him
 When he went off to World War II
 To save us all from ruin
 Now if you've ever held a Randall knife
 You'll know my father well
 And if a better blade was ever made
 It was probably forged in hell
 My father was a good man
 He was a lawyer by his trade
 And only once did I ever see
 Him misuse the blade
 Well, it almost cut his thumb off
 When he took it for a tool
 The knife was made for darker things
 You could not bend the rules
 Well, he let me take it camping once
 On a Boy Scout jamboree
 And I broke a half an inch off
 Trying to stick it in a tree
 Well, I hid it from him for a while
 But the knife and he were one
 He put it in his bottom drawer
 Without a hard word one
 There it slept and there it stayed
 For 20 some odd years
 Sort of like Excalibur
 Except waiting for a tear
 My father died when I was 40
 And I couldn't find a way to cry
 Not because I didn't love him
 Not because he didn't try
 Well, I'd cried for every lesser thing
 Whiskey, pain and beauty
 But he deserved a better tear
 And I was not quite ready
 So we took his ashes out to sea
 And poured 'em off the stern
 And then threw the roses in the wake
 Of everything we'd learned
 And when we got back to the house
 They asked me what I wanted
 Not the law books, not the watch
 I need the things he's haunted
 My hand burned for the Randall knife
 There in the bottom drawer
 And I found a tear for my father's life
 And all that it stood for