Mama

MAMA, DON'T LET YOUR BABIES GROW UP TO WORK THE OILFIELD

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to work the oilfield,

They'll spend half their lives chasing a paycheck out there.

They'll leave before daylight with a thermos and a hard hat,

Come home smelling like diesel, mud, and sweat in their hair.

They'll learn how to sleep when the whole world's awake,

And work through the weather 'til their backs start to ache.

They'll miss birthdays and dinners, they'll live by the clock,

And learn real quick how fast a twelve-hour day can walk.

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to work the oilfield,

Don't let 'em fall in love with that pump jack sound.

'Cause once that iron gets a hold of their heart,

It's damn hard to ever put the hard hat down.

They'll chase that money, they'll swear it's worth the cost,

They'll count every dollar against everything they've lost.

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to work the oilfield—

Unless they're ready to give it everything they've got.

They'll learn what H2S means before they learn the signs,

Learn to trust their crew with their lives on the line.

They'll stand on a pad underneath a burning sun,

Watching pressure climb while the pumps start to run.

They'll hear that radio crackle at two in the morning,

“Something ain't right,” and suddenly nobody's yawning.

They'll fight busted iron, bad roads, and cold rain,

Then climb back in the truck and go do it again.

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to work the oilfield,

Don't let 'em fall in love with that pump jack sound.

'Cause once that iron gets a hold of their heart,

It's damn hard to ever put the hard hat down.

They'll chase that money, they'll swear it's worth the cost,

They'll count every dollar against everything they've lost.

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to work the oilfield—

Unless they're ready to give it everything they've got.

But maybe you let 'em, if that's what they choose,

'Cause there's pride in a man with a worn-out pair of boots.

There's something about building a life with your hands,

Making a living in a place where the ground never stands.

And someday that roughneck might come home and say,

“I did all those damn miles so my kids could have a better day.”

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to work the oilfield,

But if they do, let 'em know why they're out there.

It ain't just the money, and it ain't just the pay,

It's knowing somebody's waiting at the end of the day.

They'll come home tired, they'll come home black with grease,

But they'll know every hard mile bought their family some peace.

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to work the oilfield—

But if they do...

Lord, better teach 'em how to come home.