The legend lives on from the cul-de-sac on Where the ground is hard and roots have grown Of a crew with a jet and pipe 20 feet long A sleeve was missed and it had to be run The concrete was poured in the heat of July, Rebar and gravel laid tight, No man would dare with a shovel and pry Disturb that well paved drive It was late in the fall when the order came down To sleeve a new pipe, to run a new line, But the concrete lay heavy and thick as a crown With no trenching allowed underneath. So we rolled out the hose and we fired up the pump, Let the pressure rise steady and slow, And the jet head sang with a rumbling hum As it burrowed through ground down below. Does anyone know where the water will go When the clay won’t give way to the steel? The jet carves a path in the earth’s hidden seam With a force you can’t touch or feel. And the driveway stands firm in the pale morning sun While the mud and the slurry abide, For the tale of the sleeve that was laid underneath Is the song of the bored-out drive. The nozzle bit hard at the stubborn red clay, Packed tight from a thousand rains, And the gauge needle danced while the crew chief would say, “Keep her straight on the grade and the plane.” Through rock and through root that had wandered too far, Through gravel compacted like stone, That jet line crept under the family car Where the tires had weathered and shone. The neighbor stood watching with coffee in hand, As the slurry came pooling and brown, But no crack split the slab and no shift marked the land, And no corner of driveway went down. For the sleeve slid through like a needle and thread Drawn clean through the earth’s dark gloom, And the conduit lay where the surveyor said Beneath that unbroken drive And the men on the line say a driveway’s a test You don’t fight the slab and you don’t break the grade, You let pressure and patience decide— you just follow the jet till it rises again. They wiped off the mud from their boots and they knew They had passed that unspoken test. For the street still lay quiet, the driveway unscarred, Not a crack nor a buckle in sight, Now few ever know where the water will go When the ground hides its secrets inside, But the jet left its mark down deep in the dark Under concrete glossy and white. And the crew drove away in the cool evening sun With the pump and the hose tied tight, Leaving nothing behind but a line out of sight And the memory of pressure and might. The legend lives on from the cul-de-sac on Where the ground is hard and roots have grown Of a crew with a jet and pipe 20 feet long And a sleeve that was finally run
