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I’ve been called a lot of things.
Crooked ain’t one of ’em.
Boots hit gravel and the air still smells like oil.
Another shift, another timecard.
I take my work slow enough to do it right.
Every dollar comes the hard way.
My hands don’t look clean anymore, but they’re honest.
That’s the only proof I need.
Luck never built anything that lasted.
I just want to close my eyes knowing the day was earned.
I ain’t no outlaw.
I don’t cut in line or steal what isn’t mine.
I get up when I’m tired, show up when I’m sore,
and keep my word when it costs more than it should.
The world spins louder than it should,
but I stay in my lane and keep it moving.
Some folks talk bigger than the job they do.
The truth doesn’t bend for a handshake or a smile.
I turn the wrench until it stops leaking.
I measure twice because I can’t afford mistakes.
Nobody’s watching, and that’s fine.
The work still gets done.
Right isn’t easy.
It just sits there waiting for someone stubborn enough to hold it.
I ain’t no outlaw.
I don’t chase shortcuts.
I keep the tools clean, the books square,
and my temper tucked inside my sleeve.
No medals. No applause.
Just a man finishing what he started.
The jeans are stained, the nail’s split open again.
The horn sounds twice and I head for home.
Respect doesn’t walk through the door;
it’s built one bolt at a time.
If doing it right makes me look square,
then square’s the shape I’ll die in.
I don’t want fame.
I just want the air, the noise, and a reason to keep going.
I ain’t no outlaw.
I make my living the hard way.
I keep my name steady and my conscience clean.
If tomorrow comes, I’ll show up again.
That’s enough.
I ain’t no outlaw.
Just a man trying to get it right.
