It's the roughneck, that's what we are,
true blue collar workers, a western star.

Into the night, we slam those tongs,
tripping for pipe, that seems so long.

Drillers on the brake handle,throttle in hand,
ordering his crew members, to dig the sand.

Sweat on our brows, as if to push a heavy plow,
workers till dawn, that's our lonely song.

The derrick man is high above the steel floor,
working his board, not many others know.

The motorman tends the surging power of the diesel,
driving those huge draw works, and rotory table.

The lead tongs going on strong, doing that dirty work,
we can't go too wrong, as we sing that heavy song.