Spencer feeds the dog,
Freda makes the coffee,
And the wind slams the screen door again.
And the radio says,
Its gonna' be another hot one,
And the price of wheat went down again.
Spencer lights a cigarette,
And looks across the wheat fields,
Whistling and a waving,
As far as he can see.
Sixty years of farming,
Bent them down a little,
But they ain't-a-broken, aint-layin'-down yet.
And Spencer's daddy used to say,
You know it's all gonna' blow away someday.
Nothing left standing,
This Oklahoma Wind is gonna' have its way.
His eyes are full of memories,
Like red dirt on his glasses,
Like fresh paint on his old John Deere.
Then Freda says,
"Spencer, what you want for breakfast?"
Like she has every day for sixty years.
It don't matter.
Here today, gone tomorrow,
Like guitar songs and laughing,
Laughing and playing late out on the porch.
And spencer says,
"You know Freda, it's all gonna' blow away someday,
Nothin' left standing.
This Oklahoma Wind is gonna' have its way."
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