Untitled

“never coming home"

Sun goes down on another long day,

Steel-toed boots and a face full of gray.

Diesel smoke hanging thick in the air,

Another twelve hours, another nightmare.

We joke with the boys like nothing is wrong,

But everybody knows what we're betting upon.

One bad valve, one spark, one mistake,

And the next phone call could be all it takes.

There's a picture of my family tucked inside my cab,

Reminds me of everything I have.

I kiss them goodbye and say, “I'll be home,”

But every roughneck knows you don't really know.

I don't wanna come home in a cardboard box,

I don't wanna be another name carved in stone.

I don't wanna leave my babies wondering

Why Daddy never made it home.

We're chasing that paycheck, we're chasing that dream,

Standing beside something meaner than it seems.

Every shift we pray that the good Lord walks

Beside every man on this oilfield clock.

'Cause the hardest part of working this job

Is wondering if you're coming home or not.

Pressure climbing, pumps start screaming,

Red lights flashing, everybody's moving.

You learn real quick what respect means

When you're standing beside thousands of PSI.

Acid burns, iron swings, fire in the night,

You trust your crew with your whole damn life.

One man's watching while another man's tied,

And everybody's got somebody waiting outside.

My wife's got my number saved under “My Love,”

She tells me every night, “Please be careful out there.”

I tell her, “Baby, I've got this,”

Then hang up and whisper my own prayer.

I don't wanna come home in a cardboard box,

I don't wanna be another name carved in stone.

I don't wanna leave my babies wondering

Why Daddy never made it home.

We're chasing that paycheck, we're chasing that dream,

Standing beside something meaner than it seems.

Every shift we pray that the good Lord walks

Beside every man on this oilfield clock.

'Cause the hardest part of working this job

Is wondering if you're coming home or not.

So if you see a roughneck heading down that road,

Give him a wave, he's carrying a heavy load.

He's not just working for the money in his hand,

He's building a future the best way he can.

And when that shift is finally over,

And those headlights turn toward home,

There's nothing sweeter than that front porch light

Saying, “You made it home.”

I don't wanna come home in a cardboard box,

I wanna walk through that front door alive.

I wanna hold my wife, I wanna kiss my kids,

I wanna watch them grow up right before my eyes.

So here's to the men who work beneath these lights,

Who face the danger every damn night.

May God keep His hand on every soul

And bring every oilfield worker home.

'Cause the best paycheck ain't what's in your bank,

It's hearing your family say,

“Thank God you're home.”