Out of doors firemen went,
Unsure of the time that would be spent.
Fighting fires, tending the sick,
Responding to car wrecks, they don’t pick.

Time passes on as the firemen are away,
Their children still sleep, eat, or continue to play.
Wives, sisters, moms, and children too,
Sit and wonder, they have no clue.

Alarmed you see, because they don’t know,
What lurks ahead when their men hit “The Show”.
Each day we live with this little bit,
Today the men must play out the script.

The script you see, is a job to be done,
By faithful men, dedicated to come.
No matter the year, day, or time,
Each call is a moment for them to shine.

The shinning moment; a task complete,
Lives saved by limber lightening feet.
Homes scarred by char and dust,
But memories saved, it was a must.

Wet, charred, cold, or hot,
Station 9 got its shot.
Not to be heroes, simply just men,
Doing their job once again.

The job: men who answered the call,
The call to help, not one but all.
Not for money, honor, or glory,
But love of the service, none think funny.

Volunteer’s we all can’t be,
Some of us can’t see the need.
Waiting to hear the ring of a tone,
Coming from beeper’s, interrupting our homes.

Beeper’s tones ring loud and true,
No doubt could be for me or you.
Praise to the men who lend their hands,
Please help the local departments, whenever you can.