Old tractor dismembered and shrouded in dust
Her body disfigured by horrible rust;
Her day is long over, her plowing all done,
No more will she flash in the sun.
The spark plugs are gone; there's no fire inside.
Her pistons long idle, her spirit has died;
She rusts in dishonor, not even a grave
In reward for the service she gave.
In a field back of nowhere, abandoned, alone;
Been robbed of the seat that was used as a throne.
No one to sing to the song of the gears;
Everything's gone with the years . . .
In her prime she could plow fifteen acres a day.
The binder in fall was considered as play.
With full tanks she'd boldly strike out, at the dawn;
Be there until last light had gone.
One way or harrows, she didn't much care;
The belt pull of harvest when fall's in the air;
Her real work, revealing what lay below ground
Each new year when spring rolled around.
In a field back of nowhere, abandoned, alone;
Been robbed of the seat that was used as a throne.
No one to sing to the song of the gears;
Everything's gone with the years . . .
Yesterday's gone, must keep with the times.
Not much call today for a pitchfork with tines.
Computerized cows let themselves out to graze...
Tomorrow there'll be a new craze.
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