I drove an eighteen wheeler,
And was gone six weeks at a time.
Longing to see my kids and wife,
Their picture in my cab was fine.
I would call them on the telephone
Before I bedded down each night.
But my heart was always longing.
Making a living was my greatest plight.
Breakfast at a Flying J truck stop,
I smelled the bacon and the ham,
Remembering just how good it was
When sharing those aromas with them.
When I finally make it home,
I feel resentment once inside.
My wife had ruled the roost there,
And that used to hurt my pride.
A truckers life isn’t simple,
When a family is left behind.
It’s like driving uphill in first gear
On the steepest mountain climb.
My children always rush to see me,
Arms open wide they’ll jump,
Up into my waiting arms.
How like that I wish she’d come.
Sleeping in motel rooms.
Keeping all my logs for cops.
Racing around the country.
Every day I want to stop.
Rolling around the roadways,
Wheels always smelling hot.
If you want to drive eighteen wheelers,
My advice would be that you do not!