|
The blood red sun beat down and baked the red clay ground |
|
Dust kicked up around his John Deere wheels |
|
No trace of rain in sight, again he'll lose the fight |
|
And have to watch his crops die in the fields |
|
They stood there both in tears, his wife of many years |
|
Said John, "You know I hate to lose our farm" |
|
He looked into her eyes then looked up at the skies |
|
And told her as he held her in his arms |
|
"In my next life, I want to be your hero |
|
Somethin' better than I turned out to be |
|
I've lived this life behind the plough and harrow |
|
In my next life, I'll make you proud of me" |
|
The muscles in his arms just like his run down farm |
|
Soon withered up and slowly disappeared |
|
One hard workin' man, two hard workin' hands |
|
Were givin' up after all these years |
|
His aging eyes grew dim and the lady that worshiped him |
|
Sat cryin' on a chair beside his bed |
|
Her hands caressed his brow and she said it's alright now |
|
And as he slowly slipped away, he said |
|
"In my next life, I want to be your hero |
|
Somethin' better than I turned out to be |
|
I've lived this life behind the plough and harrow |
|
In my next life, I'll make you proud of me" |
|
"In my next life, I want to be your hero |
|
Somethin' better than I turned out to be |
|
I've lived this life behind the plough and harrow |
|
In my next life, I'll make you proud of me |
|
In my next life, I'll make you proud of me" |
