The city-slickers wear new boots
Down the asphalt roads they go
Shiny buckles and clean britches
They wear it all for show.
It’s just a fashioned statement
For the fresa in the duds.
They can’t repair a fence
Or go tromping through the mud.
His hands are soft as feathers
He ain’t working much today
The money from the government
Keeps his competence at bay.
But in my town there is a man
In those wranglers, old and worn
Dirty boots from all day workin’
Haulin’ hay and pickin’ corn
He’s makes an honest livin’
Life ain’t easy, but it ain’t hard
A long day’s work he’s givin’
He won’t take a welfare card.
He’s prodding all the cattle
In the heat of summer day
Dust is rising from the ground
As a cow dog barks the way
He can take a piece of metal
And heat it up red hot
With anvil and a hammer
Shape it into Lord knows what.
In my town there is a man
In some wranglers, faded blue
Doesn’t know that you exist
And wouldn’t really care to.
To my brother,
– Caleb
caneymountainblog.com 