Nursery Rymhe Time

We’ve all had those times when we get a song stuck in our heads, right? How about a nursery rhyme? I was just rolling along, minding my own business, when out of nowhere I kept thinking about a nursery rhyme I’m sure we’ve all heard before. I won’t quote the whole thing here, but it says something like, “This old man, he plays one…” and continues with the familiar part about a knick-knack, paddy-whack, give a dog a bone… you know the one. The rhyme I’m referring to has a pattern of starting with the number one and concludes with the number ten. This old man, he plays one… then he plays two… then three, and so on. So, if I can’t get the thing out of my mind, I might as well get my own version down on paper. My version of this rhyme is about an old driver who works himself to the bone for his whole life, and never seems to take time off to actually go home. That is, until it’s too late, and he finally goes home to Heaven. I wasn’t really planning to write such a poem, but sometimes these things take a course of their own. Hopefully you’ll enjoy my little spin on “This Old Man” – and it won’t get stuck in your head for too long! Thanks to my editor Dan Linss for providing this picture of Leon “Popcorn” Wheaton – an old school trucker and past 10-4 cover feature who left us several years ago.

THIS OLD MAN
By Trevor Hardwick

This old man… he said once,
He’d been on the road for months.
In a twin-stack, little Mack,
Drippin’ lights and chrome…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… he pushed through,
He drove junk, but he made do.
With a few snacks, in a sack,
On the road alone…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… he ain’t free,
He had ex-wives, more than three.
For a tin shack, it’s a fact,
He paid on a loan…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… he wants more,
He drove truck from shore to shore.
And with few perks, he would work,
His fingers to the bone…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… loved to drive,
That’s when he felt most alive.
With the smokestacks blowin’ black,
He was in his zone…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… played with sticks,
A four speed, right behind a six.
He’d push that little Mack,
And give the Dog a bone…
But this old man would not go home.

This old man… dreamed of Heaven,
He rarely stopped at hour eleven.
Just a two-pack, coffee black,
Subject of a poem…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… would not be late,
He pushed hard and tempted fate.
Cuttin’ back and givin’ slack,
Were nothing he had known…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… he took his time,
And tried to leave the past behind.
It was no act, it’s just a fact.
He rode the road alone…
This old man would not go home.

This old man… to my chagrin,
I’ll never see his face again.
In his twin-stack little Mack,
His name is carved in stone…
This old man is rolling home!