Uncle Mack
Old Uncle Mack had a long life,
seen alot,
racism and civil rights,
picked cotton in a hot summer field
for a man who didn't care for him.
He rode the rails for most of his life,
seeing things and meeting people,
landed a nice retirement check.
Humor and wit seemed to pour out
of Uncle Mack like the Country Blues
he could play on that old Martin.
I met him late in his life
in the deep old South
of this nation through a friend.
He wasn't really my Uncle,
he became much more than that.
I help him do the things
he needed to do.
He taught me how to play the Blues
and told me stories of days long gone by.
On a hot July day my friend
called to tell me Uncle Mack
had quietly passed away that night.
At the funeral I was the only
white person around,
some of the family questioned me.
After the preacher said his say
and the tears were falling,
I began playing my guitar the way
Uncle Mack had taught me
and let my tears fall like rain.
All were silent when I was done,
I threw my guitar pick in the grave
and walked away thanking the Lord
I'd met this man,
my "Uncle Mack".
Copyright © Mark King | Year Posted 2006
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