John McCutcheon
Mightier Than the Sword

Most Saturday mornings of my young life...after breakfast and before the afternoon Milwaukee Braves broadcast...I'd mount my trusty Schwinn and pedal my way down to the most fabulous building in our town: the Marathon County Public Library. In the cool calm of the library stacks I plowed my way through the Landmark History series, read everything Twain offered, memorized Robert Louis Stevenson poems, devoured Steinbeck, Hemingway, Verne. My grandparents lived conveniently down the block from the Arcadia Public Library. Many summer afternoons perched on their hypnotic porch swing I'd ply the ocean's depths in a World War Two submarine or crouch witl Dill, Scout and Jem in the bushes outside Boo Radley's house. Books were my refuge and my launching pad. I loved them as nothing else in my young life.

As I grew, traveled and explored, Stevenson led me to ee cummings, WH Auden, Yeats, Neruda, Ginsburg, Mary Oliver, Rita Dove, Steinbeck and Harper Lee introduced me to Faulkner, Salinger, Eudora Welty, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabelle Allende, Anne Tyler, Barbara Kingsolver. History, biography, essays, politics, children's books...it was a horizon of unending pleasure and passion.

Informed by this lifetime of reading, the imagery and themes of author's works began to show up in my songs. Dead Man Walking was written in the immediate aftermath of reading Sr. Helen Prejean's book. It's the Economy, Stupid came in the wake of Wendell Berry's Jaber Crow. While reading Barbara Kingsolver's Small Wonder, I discovered the essay Our Flag Was Still There. I called her and said, "Listen, this is a great song waiting to be written. You can either let me steal your ideas or get on board and write it with me."

The resulting collaboration was so rewarding and so much fun that the idea for this project was born. I wrote to a slew of my favorite authors and, to their amazing, courageous credit, almost all of them said, yes. More said yes than are included in this recording. Woody Guthrie (thanks to Nora Guthrie and the good people at the Woody Guthrie Archives) opened up the possibility of posthumously including Pablo Neruda and Jose Marti. I tried to let each writer's voice be clearly heard alongside mine. Indeed, anyone who knows Lee Smith's work will recognize her in Single Girl, and those familiar with the powerful, elegant poetry of Rita Dove will hear her steps echoing Claudette Colvin to her shift. Still, there were surprises. Harness Up the Day is as unusual a Woody Guthrie lyric as I've come across, and I still delight, all these listenings later, to the playful wisdom of Wendell Berry's Jaber Crow's Silly Song About Jesus.

If the listener takes anything away from this recording, let it be this: a curiosity to explore further works by each of these writers. Each one was invited in to my world of songwriting because of my deep love of and respect for their work. This album is an extended love song to books. To authors. To writing. From my earliest days, lost in a world of literary wonder, I've turned to reading to both lift me out of my ordinary life and to plunge me more deeply into it. Songs served the same purpose for me. To wed these two storytelling passions for this project has been a joy, an honor, and a debt, in some small measure, fulfilled.

John McCutcheon, Charlottesville, Virginia, August 2005

Formats

Produced by John Jennings & John McCutcheon
This album was created entirely using union labor
Year Released: 2005

Lyrics

Our Flag Was Still There
Words & music by John McCutcheon & Barbara Kingsolver

John: vocal and guitar
JJ: electric guitar, percussion and vocals
Julie: vocal and organ
Rani: vocal
JT: vocal and bass
Scott: percussion

This is the song that got this entire project started. I encountered Barbara’s essay of the same title in her collection Small Wonder. The failure of the progressive community in the United States to lay claim to our common possessions has allowed the perversion of patriotism, the hijacking of our symbols and the claim by a small part of the political spectrum to define what being an American is for everyone else. Barbara’s essay so clearly resonated with me that this song was an easy write.

I can see it so clear
That very first time
At a game with my Dad
I was eight, maybe nine
We all rose to our feet
Before the ballgame could start
We took off our caps
And put our hands to our hearts

First (false) Chorus
It was more than a banner
It was more than a song
I sang because I believed
I sang because I belonged
I sang for all those who dreamed
For all those who dared
Who looked to the heights
And our flag was still there

I see it passing on cars
I see it passing for war
I see it passing for patriotism
I have seen it before
I’ve seen it used as a weapon
To brand some as wrong
No one has the right, I’ll stand up and fight
To say I belong

Chorus
And our flag is still there
For the saints and the sinners
Yes, our flag is still there
For all the losers and winners
For those who still dream
For those who still there
For the scorned and forgotten
Our flag is still there

Lawrence & Lexington
Concord & Kent
Seattle & Selma
We are born of dissent
And on this native ground
Blessed by immigrant blood
In that river of freedom
We’re all washed in the flood Chorus

Bridge
It’s still there
Though we might disagree
If you are brave
In the land of the free
We have weathered so much
We have traveled so far
We are woven together
We are spangled with stars

So as we take off our caps
And as we all rise
Put our hands to our hearts
As we lift up our eyes
We begin with one question
We ask, “Oh, say, can you see?”
Stand and be strong, believe and belong
Be brave and be free Chorus

©2005 John McCutcheon & Barbara Kingslover/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

La Mujer de Don Miguel
By John McCutcheon & Carmen Agra Deedy

John: vocal and guitar
JJ: vocal
Julie: organ
Rani: vocal and fiddle
JT: bass
Scott: percussion

La mujer de Don Miguel
Is adorned with his Endearments:
Mi cielo,
Mi alma,
Mi negra,
Querida,
Preciosa,
Cariño,
Mi Vida.
They are strung
Like pearls
'Round her proud neck.
La mujer de Don Miguel

As she walks through
The barrio,
Shoulders back,
Other women gawk--
Then chide and shame
Their own men,
Counting their baubles as
Cheap.
O, their adornments pale
Next to those
De la Mujer de Don Miguel.

Mi cielo,
Mi alma,
Mi negra,
Querida,
Preciosa,
Cariño,
Mi Vida,
Mi amor.
La mujer de Don Miguel

©2005 John McCutcheon & Carmen Agra Deedy/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Claudette Colvin Goes to Work
By John McCutcheon & Rita Dove

John: vocal
Julie: piano
JT: bass
Rani: fiddle
Scott: percussion
Rita: “Stay Still”

Rita Dove, besides being a neighbor and a friend, is one of the most remarkable poets of our age. The original text of this poem…”squared-up” into a song…first appeared in her collection On the Bus with Rosa Parks.

Menial twilight sweeps storefronts on Lexington
The shadows arrive in their places
Neon sputters to life, its fickle brilliance
Falls on the forms and the faces
In each narrow residence tired interiors
Cry out "Is anyone here?"
Keys on the table, standing in darkness
"I'm beat, just bring me a beer"

Mostly I say to myself, "Stay still"
Before I switch on the light
Just one drop of sweat would melt all I know
Into welcome, anonymous night
The men on the Avenue light up their smokes
And shout words harsh, unforgiving
I walk through their insults dressed in my whites
Going to make my small living

What do we have to do to make God love us?
What do we have to do to make God love us?
My daddy mowed lawns like a boy,
Mama she worked as a maid;
And I'm the crazy girl off the bus
Who said she'd be President one day

This evening, like every, I start out for work
Into the wet city streets
It's the Number 6 bus to the Lex Avenue train
All night changing bedpans and sheets
And I don't curse of spit like they say I did then
I do the work that must be done
I help those that can't help themselves
'Til sleep rains down on me warm as the sun

What do we have to do to make God love us?
What do we have to do to make God love us?

Port Fairy, Victoria, Australia.

© 2005 John McCutcheon & Rita Dove / Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Good Ol’ Girls
Words & music by John McCutcheon
Inspired by Lee Smith

John: vocal, guitar, banjo and fiddle
Julie: organ
Rani: fiddle
JT: bass
Background vocals by the Good Ol’ Girls: John Jennings & JT Brown

Everyone knew one or two
Back there in your hometown school
The ones who bucked at every rule
Talkin' 'bout the good ol' girls
The kind of girl you can't forget
With her bottle of beer and a cigarette
She kicked the ass of teacher's pet
Talkin' 'bout the good ol' girls

Chorus
Good ol' girls they’re so fine
Got pure devilment on their mind
Long afternoon and a bottle of wine
Talkin' 'bout the good ol' girls

When there's old time music in the air
She's the very first one outta her chair
Preacher is a-scowlin' but she don't care
Talkin' 'bout the good ol’ girls
You can pick her out in any crowd
Livin' large and laughin' loud
She'll make you mad and make you proud
Talkin' 'bout the good ol’ girls Chorus

Bridge
Her turn and talk and hide are tough
Life with her could get plumb rough
She might love you if you're man enough
Talkin' 'bout the good ol’ girls

Ain't no arguing because
Ain't no regrets for what she does
What she is she always was
Talkin' 'bout the good ol’ girls
You'll spot 'em when they're old, as well
The ones with stories still to tell
Full and fierce and fun as hell
Talkin' 'bout the good ol’ girls Chorus

©2005 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Dead Man Walking
words & music by John McCutcheon
inspired by Sr. Helen Prejean’s Dead Man Walking

John: vocal, guitar and banjo
JJ: vocal, electric guitar and flat-picked piano
Julie: organ and percussion
Rani: vocal and fiddle
JT: bass
Scott: jaw harp and percussion

Warden comes in with his hands all a-sweatin'
But there's steel in his eyes and beer on his breath
Priest stands by with his prayer book open
Preaching 'bout forgiveness in the language of death
You get one last meal, one last cigarette
One last phone call if there's someone who'll talk
Any last words and you better think quick
Because eternity's a-waiting at the end of the walk

Quiet on the tier
There's a dead man walking
I said, "Quiet on the tier
There's a dead man walking!"

I ain't asking for favors, for handouts or pity
I got no right to ask for forgiveness at all
But "Vengeance is mine!" said the Lord in the Bible
I bet he don't know a thing about that room down the hall
Twelve good men and woman, all calm and collected,
Said, "Your sorry-ass soul has got to burn for your crime."
It's an easier road to revenge than to mercy
But an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind

Quiet on the tier
There's a dead man walking
I said, "Quiet on the tier
There's a dead man walking!"
One hand on the trigger and the other on the switch
If one of 'em is innocent I can't say which

Last night I dreamed I seen my Mother
She was standing in the kitchen staring out at the yard
She had her hands on her hips and her eyes on the garden
Like it'd sprout me a pardon if she prayed real hard
It was a July morning, church bells a-ringing
Hard oak pews and my Sunday best
Now I'm sitting here waiting on the angel band
In my last suit of clothes with a strap across my chest

Quiet on the tier
There's a dead man walking
I said, "Quiet on the tier
There's a dead man walking!"

From their very first step to the last of their lives
They'll pay more to kill him than to see he survives

©1994 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Cultivo una Rosa Blanca
Words by Jose Martí/Music by John McCutcheon

John: vocal, guitar and hammer dulcimer
Julie: accordion
Rani: vocal
JT: vocal and bass
Scott: percussion

Jose Martí, is Cuba’s national hero as well as being her most-loved poet. He is most well-known in the United States as the lyricist of Guantamera. This lovely poem has been a long-time favorite.

Cultivo una rosa blanca
en julio como en enero
para el amigo sincero
que me da su mano franca.

Y para el cruel que me arranca
el corazon con que vivo,
cardo ni ortiga cultivo,
cultivo la rosa blanca.

I cultivate a white rose
In July as in January
for the sincere friend
who gives me his open hand.

And for the cruel one who tears from me
the heart with which I live
neither thorn nor thistle do I cultivate,
I cultivate the white rose.

Savannah, GA

©2005 John McCutcheon & José Martí/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Harness Up the Day
Words by Woody Guthrie/Music by John McCutcheon

John: baritone guitar & vocal
JJ: piano & electric guitar

I encountered this stunningly beautiful lyric in the Guthrie Archives in May 2005. It is uncharacteristically undated, though Nora Guthrie, based on the more “square” rhyme structure, reckons that it dates from the Bonneville Power Project period (1940).

It’s a wrinkled, crumbled, rumpled look
That’s scattered ‘cross my bed
Where a friend of mine now long gone
Used to lay her restless head
The moon would fall across the sky
The stars would take a peep
And I would stay awake at nights
To watch my lover sleep

Lots of history-making visions
Through my dusty brain would chase
When I’d see the moonlight shimmer
In the shadows on her face
The sun would chase the dreamy moon
The stars from out the skies
The day would break and I would see
The ocean in her eyes

And in the dew drop glitter
Of some radiant crystal spray
We’d saddle up the weather
And we’d harness up the day
Weld up the eaves and corners
Nail up the hoists and beams
Organize the day of work
To rivet to our dreams

It’s a wrinkled, crumbled, rumpled look
That’s scattered ‘cross the bed
Where a friend of mine now long gone
Used to lay her restless head
The moon would fall across the sky
The stars would take a peep
And I would stay awake at nights
To watch my lover sleep

Charlottesville, VA

©2005 Woody Guthrie Publication (BMI) & John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Single Girl
Words & music by John McCutcheon & Lee Smith

John: vocal and guitar
JJ: lap steel
Julie: vocal and piano
Rani: vocal and fiddle
JT: bass
Scott: percussion

Lee came to our writing session with the chorus lyrics and a generous lode of hilarious losers and the doomed women who fall for them.

Tommy was the preacher's son
When I was seventeen
Prettiest boy I ever saw
Played on the high school team
We were wild and we were young
I came to understand
Oh God, the way he spoke in tongues
And the laying on of hands

Chorus:
I got a double bed
In this double wide
And a double shot of gin
I'm a single girl
In this one-horse town
Lying here alone again

Billy Wayne was number 2
He was bad to drink
But he was awful good to me
That's what I told my shrink
He stole my heart, he stole my car
That brand-new Gran Torino
He lost it on a Dead Man's Hand
At the Tunica Casino Chorus

Now, Nathan he had money
He had style and charm
To restaurants, to the theater
I was on his arm
To Paris and to Cayman
New York and Grand Bahama
Took me to town, but not to home
'Cause he could not leave his mama Chorus

Bridge:
I know someday that I'll learn not
To scratch whatever itches
Just a majorette in a long parade
Of sorry sons of bitches

So I'll stretch out in this big old bed
And see what's on TV
I hold my own remote control
I never felt so free
Johnny called an hour ago
And said he might come by
I know he's different from the rest
Aw hell, just one more try Chorus

©2005 John McCutcheon & Lee Smith/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Sail Away
Words & music by John McCutcheon
Inspired by Carmen Agra Deedy’s The Yellow Star

John: vocal
Julie: piano

In 1943 the citizens of Denmark began an intricate and inspiring smuggling operation, ferrying thousands of Denmark’s Jews to safety in neutral Sweden. Carmen’s The Yellow Star tells the legend of King Christian X during that period. (Read the book for more information on him!) In the book’s author’s note she made passing reference to the Helsingor Sewing Circle, a group of Danes who used fishing boats to lead the exodus. The name alone intrigued me and further reading rewarded me with an astounding portrait of a society whose very underpinnings provided for resistance to the Nazi occupation and the division of nations based on religious and ethnic differences. For more information on the Danish resistance see http://www.ushmm.org/outreach/denmark.htm

Ellie, come to your window
I know you're not asleep
Ellie, come to your window
While this night is still and deep
There's a light on the horizon
And now we must away
We're the next in line and there's not much time
'Til the dark dawns into day

Chorus:
Sail away and leave this bitter life behind
Sail away and see what freedom we might find
Though we might not know where we are bound
There's a boat down on the bank tonight
Ellie, come down

Ellie, come remember
That life we knew before
A year ago September
Before our borders bled with war
All the many gone before us
Wait on the other side
The star on each breast, the names of the blessed
Call us from the tide Chorus

Bridge
I number the stars
In the heavens each night
Across these seas that divide us
We are guided by their light

Ellie, take my hand now
It’s very nearly day
Ours is a foreign land now
And you can no longer stay
Here I must remain behind you
And you sail on alone
But I swear that I will find you
When these waters bring you home Chorus

©2005 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Old Cap Moore
by Woody Guthrie & John McCutcheon

John: guitar & vocal
JJ: bozouki junior, bass & vocals

This handwritten lyric was penned January 9, 1949 while Guthrie and his family lived on Coney Island (“Coney on the Pony” is how he notated the date). This little vignette was written sans refrain. While composing the melody it seemed to beg for a melodic release hence the added refrain lyrics. It affords the kind of arms-length reflection common in so many of Woody’s songs.

Old Cap Moore was a bakery hand
He loaded trucks at night
The hungry cries of the alley kids
Made Old Cap close his eyes
He turned his back while the kids ran up
Grabbed a good hot loaf of bread
The kids run home, but when payday come
Cap Moore was in the red

Because the bakery boss did count the loss
And he wrote it in his book
He docked Old Cap full retail price
For the bread the kids had took
Old Cap he jammed the backdoor latch
So the door did fly unlocked
The hungry kids picked up that bread
For ten or twenty blocks

Mister, I’m a-tellin’ you
Everything I’ve said is true
No alley kid had a friend as sure
As Old Cap Moore

That boss he took the driver and Cap to court
But he could not make it stick
The driver swore, “I did not know
“Those doors had come unhitched.”
Old Cap says, “Boss, I’m quitting you
“And I am quitting now
“I’ve got friends to put me up
“In every house in town.”

Mister, I’m a-tellin’ you
What the old man said is true
It’s an open hand and an open door
For Old Cap Moore

Mister, I’m tellin’ you
One thing I know is true
To even the score we need a whole lot more
Like Old Cap Moore

9 Jan. 1949
Coney on the Pony
12 June 2005
Charlottesville, VA

©2005 Woody Guthrie Publication (BMI) & John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Para Mi Corazón Basta Tu Pecho
Words by Pablo Neruda/Music by John McCutcheon

John: vocal, guitar and hammer dulcimer
JJ: nylon-strung guitar
Julie: piano
JT: bass
Scott: percussion

No poet has so moved and inspired me as Neruda. His earthy, sensual poetry…often wedding the sexual with the political…forces readers to participate in their world with every sense. This poem comes from his 1923-24 collection, Veinte Poemas de Amor y Una Canción de Desesperada (Twenty Love Poems & a Song of Despair).

Para mi corazón basta tu pecho,
para tu libertad bastan mis alas.
Desde mi boca llegará hasta el cielo
lo que estaba dormido sobre tu alma.
.
Es en ti la ilusión de cada día.
Llegas como el rocío a las corolas.
Socavas el horizonte con tu ausencia.
Eternamente en fuga como la ola. .

He dicho que cantabas en el viento
como los pinos y como los mástiles.
Como ellos eres alta y taciturna.
Y entristeces de pronto, como un viaje.

Acogedora como un viejo camino.
Te pueblan ecos y voces nostálgicas.
Yo desperté y a veces emigran y huyen
pájaros que dormían en tu alma.

Your breast is enough for my heart,
And my wings for your freedom
What was sleeping above your soul will rise
Out of my mouth to heaven.

In you is the illusion of each day.
You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers.
You undermine the horizons with your absence.
Eternally in flight like the wave.

I have said that you sang in the wind
Like the pines and like the masts.
Like them you are tall and taciturn,
And you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

You gather things to you like an old road.
You are peopled with the echoes and nostalgic voices.
I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated
That had been sleeping in your soul.

©2005 John McCutcheon & Pablo Neruda/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

It’s the Economy, Stupid
words and music by John McCutcheon

Written after reading Wendell Berry’s fabulous novel, Jayber Crow.

It’s the economy, stupid
A victory sign
A mantra
An explanation
A reminder
A warning
An omen
An onus
A threat
It’s the economy, stupid

Farmers’ wives bring eggs
Chickens
Whole milk
Fresh butter
To the local market
To the store
Come in with groceries
And leave with groceries and money

Small farmers raise crops
For local markets
Up at dawn
Home at dusk
More in fallow
Than under the plow
Dark loam
Rich with earthworms
Defying erosion
Anchoring forest borders
Home for
Game
Shelter
Shade
Now virginity is no longer fashionable
Even in our forests
We will harvest another crop
Of walnut
Cherry, oak
If we only live
Another hundred years.
Man was the last piece
Of creation
And has been playing catch up
Ever since.

Farming is a balance
Of muscle
Daylight
And conservation
Machinery
Becomes the muscle now
Allowing us to work
Into the night.
We plant our debts
Fencerow to fencerow
Swallowing
Every bitter dram
Of expert advice
Until
…drunk with dreams
of fortune
equity
leverage
growth…

We grow
What we cannot use
Purchase
What we used to raise
Spend
What we used to save
Sell
What we used to treasure
Mock
What we used to revere
Hate
What we used to love
It’s the economy, stupid

Understand…
I am not a nostalgist
I am a most pragmatic man
I look at what naturally occurs
In the living world…
And see diversity
Not specialization.
I look at
Hometown banks
Restaurants
Hardware stores
Where your name
Is your credit
And decisions are rendered
By people who know you
Where you are more than
The five banks
And the four airlines
And the three newspaper chains
And the two big box stores
And the one-and-a-half political parties
And the one retort:
It’s the economy stupid

And the standards
That demand that
Every teacher teaches
Every student
Exactly the same thing
And, like these students
I have to ask “why?”
Why?
It’s the economy, stupid

Now those educated
Appraised students
Ride their buses
From their consolidated schools
Back to their small towns and farms
And cannot wait
To drive their cars away
On that highway of diamonds
Into the consolidated cities
Where they look back
In shame
And wonder
Stranded
Between what they know
And what they’ve been sold
It’s the economy, stupid

The economy that looks
For the maximum return
For the quick turnaround
For the short term gain
For the unearned income
For the Big Lotto
It’s the economy, stupid

And the economy
Is impatient
It has a short attention span
It is easily bored
It is hungry
It is late for its next appointment
It puts you on hold
It does not return your call
It’s the economy, stupid

The economy
Has you working two jobs
It is mandatory overtime
It is expensive sneakers
Made by sweating children
It is cheap food
Picked by landless hands
It is good paying jobs
Disappearing from American towns
And reappearing
Nowhere
It is your closed up main street
And it is your boarded up mill
And it is your condo-minimized factory
And it is your cookie cutter mall
And it is not accountable
It is not America
It’s the economy, stupid

The economy now has no borders
Or horizons
Or faces
Or hands
The economy has only one rule:
More.

And the economy lies.
The economy tells us it is about Freedom.
The economy is about Dependence.
Not on land
Or animals
Or weather
Or neighbors
But
On machinery
And fuel
And credit.
Most farmers
Have borrowed their way
Right out of farming.
And
No government loan
No government program
Will change
That cycle.
Because the government
Is powerless now, see…
It’s the economy, stupid

And the government is the economy’s
Biggest cheerleader.
It plays by the same rules:
The quick fix
The stronger army
The bigger bomb
The dependence on machinery
To do work
That can only effectively be done
By humans.
It consolidates
When diversity is required.

It’s about economy
It’s about small towns with
Banks
And baseball teams
A general store
Churches
Family cemeteries
A schoolhouse
A lumberyard
A radio station
A newspaper
A roadhouse
A funeral home
A filling station
Open space
Open opportunity
Open eyes
Open hearts
Choice
Recourse
Response
Responsibility
It’s about economy

Craigston, Carriacou, Grenada February 2001

©2001 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Jaber Crow’s Silly Song about Jesus
Words by Wendell Berry/Music by John McCutcheon

John: vocal, guitar and hammer dulcimer
JJ: piano
Julie: accordion
Rani: fiddle
JT: bass

Wendell presented me with this short poem…pulled from the novel Jayber Crow in the book’s final edit…over lunch at his house one November afternoon.

What kind of car will Jesus drive
When he comes back again?
What make or model will suffice
To save the world from sin?

Soon may he come again to earth
To set us free at last
For Satan’s car has no reverse
And he is driving fast

Has daylight been a heavy load
Is life a dirty deal?
The Kingdom Car is on the road
Our Savior’s at the wheel

No. Wait. I take that music back
Forgive my silly song
We will foresee him as we are
And every time be wrong

Louisville, KY

©2005 John McCutcheon & Wendell Berry/Appalsongs (ASCAP)

Ode to Common Things
Words & music by John McCutcheon
Inspired by Pablo Neruda

John: vocal & guitar
Julie: accordion and synthesizer
Rani: fiddles
JT: bass

Neruda’s collection Ode to Common Things has a permanent place on my bedside table. It has informed my songwriting for years and it was a wonderful surprise to find myself writing this early one morning.

Each evening as the sun glows red
And all creation tilts toward bed
While food is in the kitchen yet
Three things are on the table set
A bowl, a cup a humble plate
And in that instant as we wait
Our bounty’s praise we sit and sing
The poorest man, the richest king
These three reminders in my home
How man can turn the earth to stone
Water, fire, earth and wheel
The hand of man, the evening meal
With promise, patience, luck and heat
We each shall toil, we each shall eat
From cupboard shelf to table grace
Everything is in its place

Ah, bowl! Two cupped hands raised in prayers
No other dish with you compares
You fit securely in our palms
For feasting and for begging alms
The first and last we each will use
For soups and grains and steaming stews
Puddings, rice, ice creams and tarts
You fill our hands, you fill our hearts

This cup the earth rose from its mud
Now skin of grape, as red as blood
It’s curve as soft as woman’s hip
I raise it nightly to my lip

The plate is both the sun and moon
Rising at my place each noon
The Angelus, the sacrament
And supper when the day is spent
A perfect disk in soapy sink
On these small things I often think
This trinity here at my place
I bow my life and offer grace

I sing an ode to common things
To napkins, razors, balls of string
I sing of fountain pens, of chairs
Of ribbons in a lover’s hair
Of things so simple, small and good
I might forget them if I would
Not pause each day and thus attest
I am a man uncommonly blest

Charlottesville, VA

©2005 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP)