That's All He Is

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.