You say your dad’s a cowboy,
you say your dad’s a cop,
or maybe he’s a plowboy
well I say, guys, just stop.
To me them titles don’t mean squat
‘cause they’re no greater than
The dignity and living glory
of a small town ladies store man.
He tried to teach his daughters right
‘bout how to sell a hat.
He yelled at them if they would tell
a woman she looked fat
in the highest margin item
hangin’ on the display racks.
We had to move the inventory
to keep clothes on our backs.
In the summer we’d go to New York City
all them anorexic models lookin’ so pretty.
We’d stay down in the Garment District
go to the delis, eat that brisket.
Or else he’d send his buyer named Blanche,
she enjoyed a chance to git off the ranch.
She wore a stole with a lotta like foxes
and sweet little hats that looked like pillboxes.
You had to remember which dress you sold to who,
‘cause in a small town when you sold it to someone else
at a social event there might be two
who were wearin’ the same outfit and belts.
That could make for a social disaster
and a falling out between friends.
Even worse on the Monday following
You might have take both back to make amends.
Sometimes a woman’d wear capri pants
for a weekend of horseback ridin’
then bring ‘em back and say without shame
that she’d decided against ‘em.
He’d give her money back,
and not just store credit.
He figured it was worth the loss
he was his own man, and his own boss.
That was part of his long-term plan.
Always treat the customer right,
You’re the only one there to turn out the lights
when you’re a small town ladies store man.