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My Old Truck

I had an old second-hand truck.
And carried balin’ wire for a little luck.

I picked her up at the neighbor “hood” junkyard.
And knew right off I was buying someone’s yesterday’s troubles.
Today I was goin’ to change all that.
She was goin’ to be My Old Truck.

The driver’s seat was tattered and torn,
From many years of being worn.
Behind the seat is where I carried the jack,
That’s where all my most valuables sat.

Two spare tires in the back with a roll of hog-wire,
And a couple of feed sacks.
It never started on the first few tries.

Like swatting a fly,
It got goin’, with a kick and a buck.
What a delightful feeling it was once we got movin’.

I knew just how far I could go before I blew a tire,
It’s perfectly awful and pitiful to know so much.

My old dog named Smoke rode in the middle.
The darn dog got plumb mean settin’ in his machine.
He had an ungoverned temper.
It didn’t take much to bristles his hackles.

He wouldn’t let anybody near my old truck.
He seized their affectionate attention in an instant,
Crushing on a shaking mouth-full,
Only for a minute.
 
 

When I stopped at the barn to open the gate,
He would jump out and headed for the lake.

What the heck is that smell?
Oh,
I just drove through the cow lot -- what a sniff.

As I mended the meadow fence, my old truck
Jumped itself out of gear, drifted around.
Even on the slightest of hill it still came down.

There were no brakes, except in the windshield
I always knew when it came to a stop.
There was another hole in the fence to repair.
Before we headed back to the shop.

There was a broken pencil stuck in the dash
It kept the heater working with a draft.
I nearly never looked under the hood,
It usually lied on the ground in front of the shop.

The inside rear view mirror swiveled around
Most of the time it was upside down.
A pair of channel-lock pliers was locked on
the window to roll it for the ups and downs.

The crank had been lost that kept the window from falling down,
my trouble seemed small headin’ for town.
Looking through a cracked windshield I could see
Scratched up hood from the many trips through the woods

I drove, pushed, and pulled My Old Truck
A hundred and fifty thousand miles and back.
We went through dust, rain, sleet and snow
Even a blizzard when it would go.

For better or the worse it was a Country Boy’s dream
Old blemishes are sometimes never no longer lost
that old eyebrow shooter of a pick up truck.

New trucks can never relish the same.
A treasure of trouble is what I found
When it came time to part, old Smoke he looked wonderfully sad.
I can’t help but smile and put in a “plug” about my old pick up truck.