My son you ask me how my craft goes,

And how hard I work each day.

Young one, I’ll tell you there are woes,

To workin’ with wheel an’ clay.

I rise each mornin’ to set up shop.

I wet my clay an’ wheel.

I slap a blob on my spinnin’ top.

Hopin’ my work earns me a meal.

I’ll tell you son, I work hard each day.

I work to make som’in’ new.

Hopin’ every pot of solid clay

Comes out as my mind knew.

I spin the clay round an’ round,

Shapin’ it with my han’s.

It slowly moves a shiftin’ mound,

Tryin’ to make it meet my plans.

I tell you, son, this clay is tough,

It moves against my will.

It fights back, down right an’ rough,

Yet I try to subdue it still.

I mold the clay soft into form,

And ready it for the kiln.

For every pot is fire born,

Till outcome I be mill’n’.

Now listen here, I’ve more to tell,

The hard part’s yet to come.

The fire they face is hot as hell,

And sadly some to flame will s’ccumb.

Of all my works that face the fire,

Many will make me proud.

I sell those works that I have sire’,

It’s ‘cause of me they are endowed.

I watch them move about the worl’,

A clatter in their wake.

I know even as their life unfurl’,

My work, my mind they break.