| Wettin' it down, boss
|
| Wet it down
|
| Wipin' it off, boss
|
| Wipe it off
|
| Doin' ten to twenty hard
|
| Swingin' twelve pounds in the yard
|
| Every day
|
| Every day
|
| I came in with a group of twenty
|
| There ain’t left but half as many
|
| In the clay
|
| In the clay
|
| Long line rider, turn away
|
| There’s a farm in Arkansas
|
| Got some secrets in its floor
|
| In decay
|
| In decay
|
| You can tell where they’re at
|
| Nothin' grows, the ground is flat
|
| Where they lay
|
| Where they lay
|
| Long line rider, turn away
|
| All the records show so clear
|
| Not a single man was here
|
| Anyway
|
| Anyway
|
| That’s the tale the warden tells
|
| As he counts his empty shells
|
| By the day
|
| By the day
|
| Hey, long line rider, turn away
|
| Someone screams investigate
|
| Excuse me, sir, it’s a little late
|
| Let us pray
|
| Let us pray
|
| This kinda thing can’t happen here
|
| 'specially not in an election year
|
| Outta my way
|
| Outta my way
|
| Hey, long line rider, turn away
|
| There’s a funny taste in the air
|
| Big bulldozers everywhere
|
| Diggin' clay
|
| Turnin' clay
|
| And the ground coughs up some roots
|
| Wearin' denim shirts and boots
|
| Haul 'em away
|
| Haul 'em away
|
| Hey, long line rider, turn away
|
| Well I heard a brother moan
|
| Why they plowin' up my home
|
| In this way
|
| In this way
|
| I said, buddy, shake your gloom
|
| They’re just here to make more room
|
| In the clay |