Assisted Living Ain’t No Place to Park a Farmer
Bale Harrison & The Texas Field Hands
Assisted Living Ain’t No Place to Park a Farmer — Music and Lyrics by Alan Nafzger
Lyrics: Assisted Living Ain’t No Place to Park a Farmer
Instead of rockin’ in a chair, he’d rather bale some hay,
Sneakin’ out past curfew just to start his day.
Swappin’ prune juice for some homemade moonshine brew,
“This ain’t my first rodeo, I’ve made a drink or two!”
Replaces Bingo nights with a round of tractor pull,
“Who says you can’t rev up when life’s a little dull?”
Trading morning exercises for a sunrise plow,
“These fields in my mind need a-farmin’ right now!”
Sneakin’ chickens in his room, callin’ it a coop,
“You say a therapy pet, I say a future soup!”
Makin’ garden beds outta window sills,
“Lettuce and tomatoes growin’ on the sills!”
Instead of craftin’ doilies, he’s knittin’ scarecrow hats,
“Gotta keep the crows away, I tell ya, that’s that!”
Setting up a corn maze in the hallway with a twist,
“Good luck findin’ your room, now put that on your list!”
Swappin’ soft jazz music for a country barn dance,
“Boot scootin’ boogie, give them slippers a chance!”
Raisin’ bees on the roof, callin’ it honey rehab,
“Can’t waste the nectar, gotta keep it in the lab!”
Instead of waterin’ flowers, he’s waterin’ the yard,
“This sod needs some lovin’, ain’t no job too hard!”
Feedin’ pigeons like they’re cows, throwin’ grain instead of crumbs,
“A pigeon ain’t no bovine, but it eats like one of ’em!”
Turnin’ the TV room into a cattle auction ring,
“Bid on this ol’ sofa, comes with a bit of spring!”
Replaces shuffleboard with shovelin’ piles of dirt,
“If you ain’t shovelin’ somethin’, what’s the effort worth?”
Sneakin’ in seeds and plantin’ crops under the bed,
“Growin’ corn in the spring, while they’re countin’ meds!”
Who’s John Deere is that in the parking lot?
Assisted Living Ain’t No Place to Park a Farmer
By Alan Nafzger (2017)
Out in the assisted living lot,
Where Buicks and sedans make their spot,
Rolled in a sight that caused a stir,
An ol’ green tractor, a mighty John Deere.
It wasn’t your typical car park scene,
This rig was rugged, rough, and mean,
A farmer’s pride, a stallion of steel,
Not just some chrome with leather appeal.
With a hundred thousand hours, she wore her scars,
A testament to fields, not city cars,
She took up two spaces, bold and wide,
No care for lines, just farmer pride.
The folks peeked out with a curious gaze,
Whispers floated through the halls in a daze,
“Who’d park a tractor where the Buicks go?”
But the farmer sat tall, lettin’ ‘em know.
“This Deere ain’t just some roadside junk,
She’s plowed more fields than you’ve got trunk,
She’s worked this land from dawn ’til dark,
And now she rests here, a retired spark.”
He left her there with the engine hummin’,
Like a prairie wind, always drummin’,
In the concrete jungle, she stood her ground,
A bit of the country where life’s slowed down.
So now that Deere’s a fixture there,
Amongst the wheelchairs and patio chairs,
A symbol of work, of life once free,
A cowboy’s spirit, in machinery.
For in assisted livin’, amidst the slow,
That John Deere reminds them of the row,
Of open fields and skies so clear,
Where a man and his tractor had nothin’ to fear.
So tip your hat to the Deere parked proud,
In a sea of cars, she stands unbowed,
A cowboy’s heart, an iron steed,
Livin’ free, in a world of need. 
