As a boy it was my father’s dream,
Consistency lies within a steady stream.
A day in the field means a table with a meal,
A single day in bed would bring total devastation.
A few dollars would take you throughout a year,
if you lived on yourself, you lived out of fear.
Having faith made hard work, and hard work made a man.
No faith brought drought, so it seemed,
drought brought no work, along with nothing to eat.
I watched him take The Book down by the creek,
he’d wash his face and hands and get down on his knees.
I’d hear him talk about my brothers and me,
wishing us to be great and to continually grow,
to work like a hard rain, so at the end of the day, we could see our rainbow.
As time went by, plans changed, at least for me.
I still worked hard, but my wardrobe turned to green.
Apparently I had an uncle, he needed me worse.
And he could pay me money, and another option was a first.
I used it to buy this guitar, and a pen to write this verse.
My father had his doubts in the big cities, and a Cadillac could never beat his Ford.
I wrote new songs, but that’s what the hymn book was for.
My brothers had land and families, and to him I didn’t have a thing.
Just place to stay that wasn’t mine, and a change to the family name.
And endless roam to a life that stood no chance, a big head with no hope, no matter the circumstance.
And to this day, if he’s found his peace, God only knows.
It still rains in Tennessee, and I still see that rainbow.