Hustlin' In My Jeans Poem by Robert James Campbell Stead

Yes, I'm holdin' down the homestead here an' roughin' it a bit,
It seems the only kind o' life that I was built to fit,
For it's thirty years last summer since I staked my first preserve,
An' I reckon on the whole I've prospered more than I deserve;
An' my friends kep' naggin' at me for to quit this toil an' strife
An' to settle in the city for the balance of my life,
An' I ain't compelled to labour—I've cached a wad of beans—
But I 'm happier when I 'm hustlin' on the homestead in my jeans.

I've tried to loaf an' like it, an' I've tried to swell about
Where the boozey run to red-eye an' the greedy run to gout,
An' I've tried to wear a collar an' a fancy fly-net vest,
An' I've tried to think it pleasant just to sit around an' rest,
An' I've mingled with the nabobs an' hee-hawed with other guys
That were just as sick as I was of a life of livin' lies;
I've mingled in society an' peeked behind the scenes —
An' I 'm happier when I 'm hustlin' on the homestead in my jeans.

Then I got the lust for roamin' an' I rummaged round the earth,
An' I got a big experience an' correspondin' girth,
But the more I roved an' rambled the less I cared to live,
An' I only kep' on goin' cause I 'd no alternative;
I learned through tips an' tickets an' the jostle of the cars
That I wouldn't trade a homestead for a continent in Mars;
An' I bid good-bye to Fashion an' her social kings an' queens,
An' I filed my second homestead an' I bought a pair of jeans.

'Course it's sometimes kind o' lonely on the prairie here alone,
When the night-time settles round you an' your thoughts are all your own,
An' old faces flit before you like a flock o' homin' birds,
An' your heart swells with emotion that no man can put in words,
An' you ponder on the Why-for, the Beginnin', an' the End;
An' you know the only things worth while are Family an' Friend —
From the trifles of existence your better judgment weans,
An' you get the right perspective on the homestead — in your jeans.

There are days the sweat-drops glisten on this sun-burned hand of mine,
There are nights the joints go creakin' as I crawl to bed, at nine,
But I hear the horses' stampin' and the rap of Collie's tail,
An' it minds me of the Eighties an' the Old Commission Trail —
Of the days we pledged our future to a land we hardly knew,
An' the men whose brave beginnings made prosperity for you;
There are men now worth their millions I remember in their 'teens,
An' they made their start by hustlin' on the homestead in their jeans.

There are times when most folks figure that their life has been a blank;
You may be a homeless hobo or director of a bank,
But the thought will catch you nappin' — catch you sometime unawares —
That your life has been a failure, and that no one really cares;
That the world will roll without you till the Resurrection morn,
An' that no one would have missed you if you never had been born,
An' I give you my conclusion—all that livin' really means
Is revealed to those who hustle on the homestead in their jeans.

Some day I reckon I'll cash in an' file another claim
Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the good get in the game;
Where the pews are not allotted by the fashion of your dress,
An' the only thing that figures is inherent manliness —
Give me no silk-spangled horses an' no silver-plated hearse,
But let some student preacher read a bit of Scripture verse,
An' find a sunny hillside where the water-willow screens,
An' plant me on the homestead where I hustled — in my jeans.