Money we have little,
Life often feels so brittle.
The riches I have can’t be spent,
Nor measured by the cent.
Treasures I have many,
All worth a pretty penny.
None could I sell,
No matter how low I fell.
Of these riches I speak,
They won’t tarnish next week.
Treasured to the ends,
They are my special truck driving friends.
Copyright ©2004 Phyllis Garland
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