The bails of golden hay lay on the rolling hill
The tractor is the man’s senior
Like a caring father teaching his son a family tradition
The tractor moves slowly and steadily
Up and down the field
Bailing the hay just as it did 60 years ago
While teaching the boy’s grandfather

A horrible force lays its shadow on the farm
The check comes regularly for the empty field
Not to plow, not to plant and not to harvest
Fields decay, tractors rust and men forget
It costs more for gas then the farm brings in now
They say there is not enough corn for ethanol
But the check comes regularly for the empty field