Dirty-thirties, Kansas plains,
Scratched the dirt, devoid of rains,
Wheat don't grow in rock hard soil,
Doesn't matter how you toil.
Four small children and a wife,
Dirt-bowl farm, ain't much a life,
Breaking horses to survive,
Thank the Lord, poor but alive.
Boiled potatoes, rendered lard,
Still got to eat, when times are hard,
Flour sacks, a young girl's dress,
Bottomed out, and then there's less.
Locusts come, as bible's plague,
Instead of stallion, broke a leg,
Will make things do, as children cry,
Ain't gonna beg, would rather die.
Painted shoes with house paint black,
Corn and green beans, grown out back,
Grey haired man, frail aging wife,
Neighbors said, peculiar life.
No restaraunts, no movie shows,
Wood stove warmed in winter's snows,
Called by all, bicycle man,
Who can fix? the old man can.
Picked 'em up from piles of junk,
Took 'em home, old Chevy's trunk,
Fixed 'em up, and sold for cash,
Making money, other's trash.
Small girl came and rode away,
Said grey haired man, no need to pay,
A smiling child, if truth be told,
More gave away, than ever sold.
As I grew up, would often see,
Grey haired man, grandpa to me,
Walked with a limp, I knew not why,
I thought him odd, I will not lie.
Did what it took, to survive,
Thank the Lord, poor but alive,
Pews were filled, as people came,
Bicycle man, Lee was his name.