Bent Nails Still Hold

I keep a coffee can by the back door. Full of nails

that the hardware store won't sell no more. Crooked edge, rusty shanks,

pulled out of old pine from a wind-torn fence line that refused to resign.

Daddy tossed 'em in the gravel, say, "Son, they ain't no

good." But I pocket 'em like prayers in a man's misunderstood.

'Cause I know a thing or two about getting bent. Still showing up

when the day is spent. I've been twisted by some hard years,

hammered by my own mistakes, but there's a carpenter out here when the night