Small Problems For A Blue Collar Man

The morning came in sideways,

with a grievance in its hand.

I told it take a number.

I’m a busy kind of man.

There’s a little less in plenty,

there’s a little more in need.

There’s a whole lot more behind me

than what’s left ahead of me.

I’ve known days that weren’t worth waking.

Still I rose and slipped my boots.

A man can call it suffering.

I just call it something to do.

There’s a rattle somewhere under me.

There’s a whistle overhead.

If it ain’t on fire presently,

I reckon we’re ahead.

Small problems for a blue collar man.

A little blood’ll dry.

A little hurt’ll quit hurting

given work enough and time.

The world can lean against me.

It has every now and then.

That’s a mighty large inconvenience.

Not much of a problem yet.

I’ve learned worry ain’t a hammer.

Never drove a nail I’ve seen.

And cussing at a circumstance

don’t make the circumstance leave.

So I keep a little patience

for the things I cannot mend,

and a considerably larger hammer

for the things that merely bend.

I’ve watched easy turn to harder.

Watched harder become worse.

Funny thing about the bottom,

there’s usually more earth.

Still the sun comes up regardless.

Still the evening finds a chair.

And somehow all those troubles

look a little smaller there.

Small problems for a blue collar man.

Tomorrow’ll bring some more.

The kind that wait till payday

or come knocking at the door.

Let the rich man call it hardship.

Let the preacher call it fate.

I got coffee in the morning. To get me through doing things I hate.

Small problems for a blue collar man.