The Railroader’s Lament

I’m a Trackman sure, there ain’t no cure, I’ve got curve grease in my veins.

I can’t stay away so I go every day, with sore knees and knuckles and lower back pains.

All day I stare at the rails glare , I dream about cross ties at night.

And before I’m through I promise you, I’ll put up a hell of a fight.

The pick and the shovel, the maul and the level, these are the tools of my trade.

The jack and the tongs, the Railroad Songs, of this is what I am made.

I always likes to drive some spikes, my arms measure perfect gage.

There ain’t much dough, and somehow I know, I’ll never die of old age.