Grandfather's Hands

My grandfather owned a farm in Ireland;
he was everything to that land:
plowman, repairman, veterinarian
and moon-shiner
(making his potcheen).

When he came home
his hands were dirty and oily.
Grandma glared at him
so long as he stayed
in the family room.

Yet, when the stew was served
and his bread set beside his bowl,
he emerged from the washroom
hands so clean a banker would admire.

"A gentleman is how you present
yourself, not what you do to live" and
to emphasize it, he'd break his roll
just as he said "present"
and dipped it at the word "live."

However long he worked and toiled
he never lost that sense of pride;
no menial task nor shoveling shit
could tarnish it for good.

Even when back from the pub
he was tipsy but not sloven;
solved all the problems of Eire
and John Bull's troubles, too;
but his cronies never saw anger,
just his normal stubborn Mick.

Through life I've seen men
of higher station and wealth,
but judged by the standards
of this old curmudgeon
not one had hands so clean.

[Hellon's Hands Contest; Prompt: http://static1.squarespace.com/static/555e28d1e4b05809c67d2fe0/t/556515cae4b06e124882af82/1432688155861/old-hands.jpg]