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He follows in footsteps over a hundred years trod
But when he closes each day no one will applaud

No glory in the work he chooses to follow
Just hope that once again he’ll wake up tomorrow

His job spells danger, each hour, every day
Hot wire, high places, still knows no other way
Up one pole and down again, just like the rest
He knows his job well, some say he’s the best

First he tried school like his siblings had been
But his hand fit a spud wrench better than a pen
He thought a few times about leaving the trade
Then realized dragging up would cut like a blade

Some men do it for money
Others just make a living
But he knows no sure reason
Why his gift he’s been given

By sight you would think he’s a much older man
Gray hair, bowed legs, rough skin, callused hands
But in his trade it’s not years that mark the lineman’s age
For hard work and hard miles turn his every page

Every day in his hooks is another he tempts fate
His name is unsung, but his importance is great
For when the power is out, to the ground the lines fall
No doctor, no lawyer, or accountant gets the call

But you can count on this lineman
through sleet, snow, or rain
He’s tired and he’s hungry
yet he’ll never complain

Though you may never meet him
while he works in the long hour.
It’s to him you owe thanks
for restoring the power

And if you’re to meet him keep one thing in mind
To look deep inside only pride you will find
Pride in his job, and the work that he does
Pride in himself and the linework he loves

Luke Moore  - Lineman

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