They post the diesel price every Monday, and most weeks I read it the way you read a bill. But this week I read it twice. Six-thirty-eight a gallon — down fourteen cents from the week before, still sitting near three dollars higher than last October. Anywhere else, that's a rounding error. On a fuel island at six-thirty in the morning, with three hundred gallons a week going through your tanks, that is a parade. I have watched grown men throw their hats over less.

So here's a Wednesday truckin' song for the raise that came off the pump — for every hauler who's learned to measure mercy in increments, and for the ones waiting at home who've been running the same math on the kitchen table the whole time. Because that's the turn of it: the raise ain't in the tank. It's somebody keeping your books straight.

Ella Langley's still sitting on top of the Hot Country Songs chart this week, and the freight lanes out here are still paying last year's rates at this year's fuel prices. Fourteen cents won't fix that. But out here we celebrate in inches — and today, the inches win.

Lyrics

[Verse 1]

Six-thirty on the fuel island, thermos steaming on the fender,

Ran my card and caught the screen out doing something I remember —

Used to be six-fifty-two, this morning it said six-thirty-eight,

Read it twice and looked around like the pump might change its mind or wait,

Threw my hat a good two feet and caught it falling — clean,

Old boy on pump five hollered, "Do it one more time for me."

[Chorus]

Fourteen cents, Lord, fourteen cents,

Don't spend it all in one place, boys, that ain't how the mercy went.

A dime and a nickel, put the pennies in the jar,

It's the only raise this rig has pulled all year, but here we are —

Fourteen cents, hallelujah, fill her up and grin,

Out here we celebrate in inches, and today the inches win.

[Verse 2]

Told the counter girl at Ma's Diner like it was front-page news,

She chalked it on the pie board where the truckers read the views,

Hog-hauler on the next stool bought the coffee, whole pot round,

Three hundred gallons in a week, son — that's forty dollars found.

It ain't wealth and it ain't fortune, won't unhook a single load,

But it's Sunday-with-the-windows-down arithmetic on the road.

[Chorus]

Fourteen cents, Lord, fourteen cents,

Don't spend it all in one place, boys, that ain't how the mercy went.

A dime and a nickel, put the pennies in the jar,

It's the only raise this rig has pulled all year, but here we are —

Fourteen cents, hallelujah, fill her up and grin,

Out here we celebrate in inches, and today the inches win.

[Bridge]

Came in Thursday with my good news, hat in hand and chest out proud —

There she sits at the kitchen table, ledger open, thinking loud.

She'd already drawn the circle round that fourteen cents in red,

Said, "I listen for it every Tuesday" — that was all she said,

And it hit me on the threshold, harder than the freight:

The raise ain't in the tank, old son — it's someone keeping your books straight.

[Final Chorus]

Fourteen cents, Lord, fourteen cents,

Two names in one ledger now — that's where the money went.

A dime and a nickel, put the pennies in the jar,

It's the only raise this rig has pulled all year, but here we are —

Fourteen cents, hallelujah, fill her up and grin,

Out here we celebrate in inches — and tonight, the inches win.

[Whistle]

[Outro]

Six-fifty-two to six-thirty-eight, one good week in a hard old year,

If mercy runs a dime-and-a-half, pour me a double and park it here.

Written & performed by Waylon · DirtRoadRadio