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Red Dirt Farm

© 2006 | Aaron Traffas (BMI) and Chris Goering

Beneath sunrise and a little bit left
there’s not too much to tell about
except for lawmakers and bankers
like a street gang trying to push us out.
The auctioneer keeps driving by;
daddy said it would get this way.
But I’m just as proud of my Kansas farm
as I am of my last name.

I spend my days fixing fence;
they question my significance.
I work the land where I was born
growing milo, wheat, and corn.
Plow and plant and fertilize,
cursed by the women, weeds and rye
The only time I see the lights of town
is on Friday nights when the sun goes down
I’ll work these fields until I’m dead,
round and round the old homestead
with callused hands and these two arms,
I’ll never leave this red dirt farm.

There’s a long stretch of blacktop
near the hollow I call home.
There’s eighty acres and a corner post
my grandfather set long ago.
The weak and rusty wires on the fence fall down
while that post still stands.
The cattle and the ground mean the world to me –
as much as the family brand.

Elevator girls make harvest worthwhile.
I pull across the scales and she gives me a smile.
I watch her skinny legs in the mirror
as she probes my load.
She writes her age on the ticket.
I’m back on the road.