My friend, for breakfast calls each month, you see,
we sit and talk over a strong cup of coffee.
Fresh baked rolls tempt us into eating more,
a few maybe, so who's here to keep score?
Paint around his nails, from cutting in the edge,
long nails are good for scraping paint off the ledge.
Spotted shoes, clothes too, a mark of his trade,
he stays on the job, at least until he is paid.
A cabin waits in the mountains for his touch,
a few days work, but not too much.
We share our stories of work and friends,
and catch up on all the other odds and ends.
As I built the deck, Joe painted the house, without a hassle,
inside and out, like it was something special, a castle.
I could see the pride he took in his work,
the little things, giving it that special look.
Turn the music up, let the paint flow,
share pictures of his special jobs, that is Joe.
His father taught him well, the painters trade,
a patch here, a touch there, a great painter he's made.
Offering suggestions, making recommendations,
to Joe it was more than a job, it was special relations.
When it's time to repaint, I call on the expert,
Joe with his spray gun and speckled sweatshirt.