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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Inspirational / Uplifting
- Published: 08/21/2014
My Ford 8N
Born 1941, M, from Harvest, AL., United StatesMy Ford 8-N
By
Carl Brooks
Few, if any, things I’ve done,
Or tried to do, beneath the sun,
Give the joy of which I feel,
Upon the seat, behind the wheel,
Of my Ford 8-N tractor.
I climb aboard, adjust the gas.
I touch the start, she coughs a sass.
I pull the choke a time or two,
She belches smoke, both black and blue.
The points and plugs are firing well.
Sometimes she takes… a stubborn spell.
But she knows well what makes us run,
You needn’t ask if this is fun.
With leaded gas and Sinclair oil,
She flexes out and starts to boil.
But all in all it’s no big factor,
Cause I just love my 8-N tractor.
I shift to first and off we go.
We've weeds to cut...grass to mow.
Feel the sun, smell the hay.
I just relax... She knows the way.
We scrape the drive, pull some stumps.
We plow some rows, smooth some bumps.
It doesn't get much better'n this;
At least, without a hug… or kiss.
I could have had my choice, you know,
Of tractors at the tractor show.
A Farmall, Deutch, a Case or Deere.
But this is my choice; this'n here.
Her paint is chipped, she's full of dents.
The drive shaft squeaks, the tie-rods bent.
I know she's old with blemished skin,
But I sure love my Ford 8-N.
There’ll come a day, we just won’t start.
Our valves all burned, with broken heart.
The fuel pump clogged, the bearings shot.
Just plumb wore out… like as not.
But wrinkle not, your heavy brow,
Remember us, with sharpened plow.
We may be old and used and thin.
But nothing beats my Ford 8-N.
My Ford 8N(Carl Brooks)
My Ford 8-N
By
Carl Brooks
Few, if any, things I’ve done,
Or tried to do, beneath the sun,
Give the joy of which I feel,
Upon the seat, behind the wheel,
Of my Ford 8-N tractor.
I climb aboard, adjust the gas.
I touch the start, she coughs a sass.
I pull the choke a time or two,
She belches smoke, both black and blue.
The points and plugs are firing well.
Sometimes she takes… a stubborn spell.
But she knows well what makes us run,
You needn’t ask if this is fun.
With leaded gas and Sinclair oil,
She flexes out and starts to boil.
But all in all it’s no big factor,
Cause I just love my 8-N tractor.
I shift to first and off we go.
We've weeds to cut...grass to mow.
Feel the sun, smell the hay.
I just relax... She knows the way.
We scrape the drive, pull some stumps.
We plow some rows, smooth some bumps.
It doesn't get much better'n this;
At least, without a hug… or kiss.
I could have had my choice, you know,
Of tractors at the tractor show.
A Farmall, Deutch, a Case or Deere.
But this is my choice; this'n here.
Her paint is chipped, she's full of dents.
The drive shaft squeaks, the tie-rods bent.
I know she's old with blemished skin,
But I sure love my Ford 8-N.
There’ll come a day, we just won’t start.
Our valves all burned, with broken heart.
The fuel pump clogged, the bearings shot.
Just plumb wore out… like as not.
But wrinkle not, your heavy brow,
Remember us, with sharpened plow.
We may be old and used and thin.
But nothing beats my Ford 8-N.
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