Saturday sun barely breakin’ through the trees, Coffee in a thermos, dust upon our jeans, Gate’s already rattlin’, cows are callin’ loud, Eighty-seven acres, proud beneath the clouds. Feed the horse, feed the cows, Goats and chickens waitin’ round, Throw another scoop and hear that old barn door, Ain’t no sleepin’ late when there’s work to do, That’s the kind of life that keeps this place true, Out here at Fenton Farms, we’re still holdin’ on. We’re the last ones holdin’ out, With neighborhoods all gathered ‘round, Concrete creepin’ closer every year, But these fields still know our name, These old fences stand the same, And the land keeps tellin’ us why we’re here. From the garden rows to the hay-field dawn, We keep workin’ while the world moves on, Fenton Farms, where our roots run strong. Fresh-picked tomatoes and a mess of green beans, Dirt under our fingernails, best meal you’ve ever seen, Goats like the good stuff, chickens peck around, Even all the animals know what grows from this ground. Paw Paw’s eighty-three, still out there every day, Workin’ hard, no quit in him, findin’ one more way, Watchin’ every cloud roll across that open blue, Tryin’ to get that hay cut before the rain comes through. We’re the last ones holdin’ out, With neighborhoods all gathered ‘round, Concrete creepin’ closer every year, But these fields still know our name, These old fences stand the same, And the land keeps tellin’ us why we’re here. From the garden rows to the hay-field dawn, We keep workin’ while the world moves on, Fenton Farms, where our roots run strong. One day them streets may circle where the wildflowers grow, But they can’t pave over all the love this old ground knows, Every hoofprint, every row, every sunset in the sky, Is a piece of who we are that’ll never really die. Yeah, we’re the last ones holdin’ out, Eighty-seven acres of sacred ground, With the city pressin’ in from every side, But Paw Paw’s still out there, Cutting hay with silver hair, And that old farm still burns bright inside. Feedin’ cows, horses, goats at dawn, Growing supper, keepin’ tradition strong, Fenton Farms, where our hearts belong. Saturday mornin’, sun comin’ up, Work boots, old trucks, and a whole lotta love, Fenton Farms… Still holdin’ on.
