Pointy boots and shiny buckles, paper cups for spittin’,
Mornings coffee, Court TV with Tink recliner sittin’.
Snot rags and duffel bags, a safe full of guns,
Nutter Butters, Lorna Doones, a box of honey buns.
Hair-smoothin', bifocal tiltin’, blowin’ his nose,
Floatin’ air biscuits, keepin’ Momma on her toes.
Singin’ fer Jesus, wheelin’, dealin’, entertainin’ masses
Horse ridin’, cattle proddin’, sweeter than molasses.
“Darlin’” this, “yessir” that, “not on your LIFE,”
Son who loves him—no, who NEEDS him—world’s best wife.
Transportation: trucks ’n trailers, tractors galore,
In bed by 8, asleep in 10, and Lord—can he SNORE!
Golden child, a little wild, Granny Bullard’s baby,
Married good, fatherhood, don’t mean maybe.
It’s Father’s Day and here's the way I keep him close to me:
By working every day to be the man he hoped I'd be.
Ed Bullard, Pop of mine,
You deserve all this hoopla and “trubba."
For the example you set, the person you are—
Love your Son, your Cowboy, your Bubba.