Your endless jokes don’t bother me,
about this truck I drive,
‘cause this ole truck could tell so much,
if it only were alive.
It belonged to my great-grandfather
the man I’m molded from,
that old blue truck that he had owned,
now belongs to his great-grandson.
It’s been through a tornado,
the same that stole the barn,
its carport thrown to the neighbor’s field,
yet it remained unharmed.
I love my ole blue truck,
and every day I’ll use it,
“the older the violin –
so much sweeter the music”