The Mornings Ain't for Lease — An Outlaw Song for the Season Money He Left on the Tailgate
Two Mondays back to back this country asked me the same question: what's a morning worth? Texas rifle season opened the 7th — gates swinging before daylight all over the map, lease offers riding shotgun with the coffee. This song is for every landowner who's held a laminated contract on his tailgate and done the math anyway. The money in this story is real — enough to winter the shed and clear the shop truck. Nobody in it is a hero for refusing it. He just made a promise to a twelve-year-old with stiff boots and a borrowed .243, and a promise don't take attachments. There's a line in the bridge I keep coming back to: the price of a thing is what it takes the place of. Fifty-six years of ledger talk taught me that one. Give the harmonica a fair listen when it rolls through — that's the canyon breathing between verses. Then Saturday comes, and the boy gets his first morning.
Lyrics
[Intro]
[Verse 1]
He came up the county road Monday, new crew-cab throwing dust
Laminated lease on my tailgate, enough to winter the shed
I read every line like fence work, left his follow-up text on read
"Exclusive through closing day"—I said, "The boy hunts Saturday
The canyon's mine to run, but that cold walk in ain't in this deal"
[Chorus]
The mornings ain't for lease
Not the thermos passed hand to hand
Not the stiff boots on the two-track
Or the boy in the north-rim stand
The feed bill don't pay itself
Lord knows I could use that check
But the mornings ain't for lease
And my word's the one thing left
[Verse 2]
He's twelve, with a borrowed .243 I sighted in last week
Three inches high at a hundred, new scope, old stock at his cheek
Four cell bars at the gate post, corn on timer out there
The outfitter counts a season's money—I just count one morning
[Chorus]
The mornings ain't for lease
Not the thermos passed hand to hand
Not the stiff boots on the two-track
Or the boy in the north-rim stand
The feed bill don't pay itself
Lord knows I could use that check
But the mornings ain't for lease
And my word's the one thing left
[Bridge]
He says, "What's one cold morning worth? You're talking like it's land"
I fold that contract on its crease and put the pen back in his hand
"You ain't buying mornings, mister—the price of a thing is what it takes the place of"
I'll stretch the feed, let the next bill come
Saturday I keep a promise, and that boy gets his first one
[Harmonica Break]
[Verse 3]
Saturday finds us at the tailgate, headlamps cutting the black
His breath blows white through the beams, rifle slung on his pack
I hand him down the thermos, check his safety, check the trail
The feeder motor stops across the draw, frost ticks on the rail
We walk in slow by headlamp, north-rim timber cold and steep
He whispers, "Did you hunt this with your grandpa?" I say, "Some things you keep"
[Outro]
"Take the left fork at the boulder, I'll be right behind"
First light climbs the north rim, his borrowed .243 and mine
Two headlamps swinging up the two-track
Thermos steam, opening morning
That boy's boots on the frost
And this one don't cost a thing I'd sell
Written & performed by Waylon · DirtRoadRadio