| It’s a ditch, okay. |
| I have shoes and a blanket
|
| My head resting light on a stone
|
| Though it’s hard it’s still rounded with a pocket for brains
|
| Or what goes for in halls under roof tile
|
| We’ll sing another blistering ballad for grandma
|
| Melody sweet till it rolls out the ear
|
| And the beer flows free as advice
|
| With a tight hand holding the jar
|
| A tight hand holding the jar
|
| The mud cakes my chin strap, fills up my cuffs
|
| As I plod, now, from creek edge to street side
|
| As it dries I can whittle it little by little
|
| «Hey, look, now I’m light as a bee»
|
| And those gray clouds mean nothing to one such as I
|
| Though shadows stand tall as some school master whack
|
| On the back of a well intentioned quiet kid
|
| With my arms held around the jar
|
| My arms held around the jar
|
| And it’s slow, so slow the idea
|
| The coming around of a sensible world
|
| It hovers and shakes like a hummingbird wing
|
| At the end of a long hot year
|
| At the end of a long hot year
|
| So fry up that supper, we’re going to kill it for breakfast
|
| As we turn the table down side and crazy
|
| With the legs up, the women up, the men up to church
|
| For the spirit, the hen yard, the bent steel track rap
|
| It’s a ditch, yeah, I know that, and, I do wonder
|
| How that bright faced, ten year old me of a boy
|
| Found the road out I never, I never could see
|
| With my arms held around a jar
|
| My arms held around a jar
|
| And it’s slow, so slow the idea
|
| The coming around of a sensible world
|
| It hovers and shakes like a hummingbird wing
|
| At the end of a long hot year
|
| At the end of a long hot year
|
| At the end of a long hot year |