Lord help us radio dispatchers.
We need your guiding hand.
We need your wisdom, too Lord,
To fill the demands of men.
We gather up the traffic
from all around the state.
We're yelled and screamed at unduly,
which only causes hate.
It's ten-four this and ten-four that.
We hear it all day long.
We have to write a thousand notes
and answer all the phones.
The patrolmen in the cars, Lord,
they growl when we answer late
when all they really wanted
was a measly twenty-eight.
We listen to the story of a mother
whose child has run away.
We hear of the missing husband
who drinks up all his pay.
Our job is so confusing
we know not where to start.
We pull our hair and grit our teeth
and tear the room apart.
It's enough to cause an ulcer, Lord.
Our nerves grow more tense.
It's just a thousand wonders
we've got a grain of sense.
So you bless us real good, Lord.
And hold us by the hand.
Help us under existing circumstances
to do the best we can.
Amen
W.R. Borsch, Jr
