Your granddad's yellow folding rule still lives in the kitchen drawer,
Worn smooth by his thumbs, and his daddy's thumbs, and their daddies' before.
The summer before you came I built your crib out in the shed,
And cut one rail two inches short, and stood there scratching my head.
Your mother laughed till she sat down in the sawdust on the floor,
Then handed me that yellow rule and said, "Try it once more."
That crib's up in the attic now, with a gap you feel with your thumb,
I keep it as a reminder of the cost of being done.

Measure twice, cut once, my son,
Let that second hand go slow.
A board cut short stays short for good,
And a promise breaks the same, you know.
(Tick-tock.)

It isn't only lumber, Theodore, it's every word you send,
Measure "I'll be there" twice before you say it to a friend.
Count the cost, and count the hours, and count what's in the tank,
A promise made in a hurry is a check without a bank.
Don't tell your boss "no problem" till you've looked at the whole pile,
Don't tell your friend "I'm coming" if you're only coming for a while,
And if you've cut it short, son, don't hide it with some glue,
Own the gap, say the number, and build it right again.

Measure twice, cut once, my son,
Let that second hand go slow.
A board cut short stays short for good,
And a promise breaks the same, you know.
(Twice!)

Before you say it. Before you sign it.
Before you say "I will."
Count to ten. Then count the cost.

Measure twice, cut once, my son,
Let that second hand go slow.
A board cut short stays short for good,
But you slept just fine, you know.
(Careful!)