Born painted in the town,
painted on a proud sign,
pulled to the shoulder and by a sack.
Old
man with a dirty face swears they're the best you'll taste,
grows them fresh in that red dirt field out back,
yeah that's a fact.
Grace is a mechanic's wife and that towhead boy's her whole life,
sews patches on blue jeans night and day,
never does much for herself,
doesn't dream
of fame or wealth, just
a ballpark bleacher and a place to pray.
But some are called
to preach the gospel,
string fence in Colorado,
and some are born to raise a
family.
Swing a hammer and a nail,
haul bricks or carry mail,
go to college, do
but yeah but me,
I got songs for sale.
There's not a lot of tread on my tires,
and some spots you can see the wires,
just
hope to make it to the next town so I can sing.
Still learning lots of lessons, still
calling it a profession,
traveling around strumming these guitar strings.
Some are good
at mending bones,
fixing drinks and telephones,
some are born to wear pinstripes on their
spades.
Swing a hammer and a nail,
haul bricks or carry mail,
go to college, do but yeah but me,
I got songs for sale.
I see it in a lot of places,
read it on a lot of faces.
Some are called to preach the gospel,
string fence in Colorado,
some are born to raise a family.
Swing a hammer and a nail,
haul bricks or carry mail,
go to college, do but yeah but me,
I got songs for sale.
I got songs for sale.