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Tribute to a Country Elevator Manager Dedicated to my husband in a small Nebraska town since 1956
If there's any one man who will merit a crown, It's the man on a siding, in a small country town. He dumps all your corn, and your musty old wheat, And he loads it in cars mid the dust and the heat. He swallows the dust till his lungs are both charged, Then jars it on down till his liver is gorged, And his kidney's are quittin' when they get a load, But he keeps right on toiling in the plant by the road. He's expected to smile at the smut and the rust, And grow fat and sleep on a diet of dust. If your endgate is fastened with staples and nails, He's supposed to undo it without any wails. And tell you a joke about Sonny or Sire, While he mangles his fingers on your old bailing wire. Then when you weigh back he must stand while you Chew the fat about weights for an hour or two. If the price has gone down he must take all the blame, And the talk that he hears makes him spavined and lame. When the price has gone up you are several loads "shy" Of the bunch that you sold, and you try to tell why. But if it goes down and you've not quite enough, You go to the neighbors to help furnish the stuff, And in storing some grain, when it comes settling time, You'll haggle a week to save a thin dime. We've all heard the story of the "patience of Job," But if you'll take the trouble, this matter to probe, You'll find that the troubles of Job were not stout, As compared with our friend I am talking about. His daily complexes the pile up every hour, He bears like a martyr, and he never gets sour. If I had "Nobel Prizes," I'd hand them aroun' To the dust covered heroes, in the Small Country Town. -Author Unknown The Country Grain Elevator Historical Society Sign My Guestbook View My Guestbook
If there's any one man who will merit a crown, It's the man on a siding, in a small country town. He dumps all your corn, and your musty old wheat, And he loads it in cars mid the dust and the heat. He swallows the dust till his lungs are both charged, Then jars it on down till his liver is gorged, And his kidney's are quittin' when they get a load, But he keeps right on toiling in the plant by the road.
He's expected to smile at the smut and the rust, And grow fat and sleep on a diet of dust. If your endgate is fastened with staples and nails, He's supposed to undo it without any wails. And tell you a joke about Sonny or Sire, While he mangles his fingers on your old bailing wire. Then when you weigh back he must stand while you Chew the fat about weights for an hour or two.
If the price has gone down he must take all the blame, And the talk that he hears makes him spavined and lame. When the price has gone up you are several loads "shy" Of the bunch that you sold, and you try to tell why. But if it goes down and you've not quite enough, You go to the neighbors to help furnish the stuff, And in storing some grain, when it comes settling time, You'll haggle a week to save a thin dime.
We've all heard the story of the "patience of Job," But if you'll take the trouble, this matter to probe, You'll find that the troubles of Job were not stout, As compared with our friend I am talking about. His daily complexes the pile up every hour, He bears like a martyr, and he never gets sour. If I had "Nobel Prizes," I'd hand them aroun' To the dust covered heroes, in the Small Country Town. -Author Unknown
The Country Grain Elevator Historical Society
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