Just a farmer, that's all he is:
Not a celebrity or a politician.
He doesn't think he's some big whiz;
And he's not a man on a mission.
He's proud that his neck is painted red;
The proof is on his scarred hands that he's not some poser.
Every August afternoon he'll have a field to ted,
After he puts his eight in on the dozer.
He's just the owner of a little farm;
Calluses and sweat make up this simple man.
He's not pretty but he's got his charm,
With strong arms and a farmer's tan.
He'll break his back just to earn a buck,
Working until the daylight's all gone.
Saturday he'll have a load of feed in his old Ford truck:
In his back glass handing is his trusty old gun.
He doesn't covet the fancy stuff he's never had,
And he might not look like much to doubters:
But he's my dad,
And I couldn't be prouder.