Freight train in the fog

“Gulf Coast Cowboy… if you came for soft, turn the hell around.”

(harmonica like a ghost-train whistle, sub drone, shipyard chains + distant steel hits)

Fog sittin’ low on the shipyard basin,

Four a.m. call — no point in prayin’.

While they dream in condos stacked to the sky,

I’m down on the pier where the real work lies.

Steel boots ring on a rust-stained floor,

Dry dock growlin’, welders at war.

Hood down, sparks rain, I don’t sleep right—

I’m the reason that their world flips on that light.

Bring out the big guns, Gulf Coast steel,

I’m the ghost in the fog that keeps their world real.

While they sip champagne and talk that shine,

I’m burnin’ up lungs on the company’s dime.

No days off, no pretty red bow,

Just calloused hands makin’ engines go.

They don’t know my name, but they ride my grind—

I keep the power on… they keep fallin’ behind.

Motel room floor, work jeans, rolled cash,

Metal in my veins, diesel in my past.

They post fake hustle on their phones all day,

I’m thirty-five days straight, working holiday pay.

Cat at the house, hat on the stand,

I kiss that life goodbye with a hard right hand.

While they sleep in late, play boss, talk brave,

I’m under floodlights diggin’ my own grave.

If we laid our tools down for one damn day,

You’d hear that silence from a hundred miles away.

Pumps stall out, tanks run dry,

And every soft hand would finally know why.

(1 second silence)

“You want comfort? Pay respect… or sit back and enjoy it.”

Fog on the water, steel in my lungs,

Middle finger up while the weld bead runs.

Gulf Coast Cowboy, last one on the line,

I keep the world turnin’ while they waste your time.

They want clean hands — I got burn marks,

They want credit — I give sparks in the dark.

Ain’t here for the fame — I’m here for the pay,

Turns out money likes me too… it likes me that way.