Down a crooked holler where the dark runs deep,
And the mountains hum while the valleys sleep,
Stands a weathered hall of brick and tin,
Where the fire bell waits for the call to begin.

Oh the siren cries through the midnight air,
Cuts through prayer and a rocking chair,
And boots hit floor from a dead man’s sleep—
For a neighbor’s flame or a hillside steep.

They ain’t paid in gold nor promised rest,
Just a patch on the arm and a willing chest,
With a hand-me-down truck and a tank half full,
Still they answer fast when the line goes dull.

Old men, young boys, and a mama or two,
All bound by a vow that they see it through,
From chimney sparks to a barn gone red,
To the wreck on the curve where the blood runs dread.

Oh the radios crackle like a preacher’s fire,
Calling saints and sinners ever higher,
And the mountain roads twist sharp and blind,
But they drive like hell with a steady mind.

There’s a cross on the wall by the turnout rack,
And a list of names that ain’t coming back,
Each one carved where the shadows fall—
A quiet roll in that firehouse hall.

Still the coffee’s strong and the laughter rings,
Between the calls and the bitter things,
For they know each dawn is a borrowed grace,
In a hard-lived land and a stubborn place.

So if you pass through where the ridgelines stand,
And you see that hall by the gravel span,
Say a prayer for souls who won’t stand aside—
When the siren sings through the mountains wide.