I stood on that knob,
fluttered up and screamin’ like a bird,
tears thicker than butter,
I know that mountain cat could hear me.
Mercier to Maine, I know these ridges will carry my song.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,
Oh mighty.
These hands, made from something that can hold.
strong and soft, grown south of Cherokee.
Oh mighty,
how both can be.
Taking a boy from his family, out of a nest, barely sewed, says the military.
Oh mighty.
These nails, pick and whittle. The song of my ‘jo and hmmmmm of my harmonica,
Oh mighty.
This seat still flies when there is no wind coming by.
All this sungleam,
skin, like soil for the soybean.
Oh mighty.
These veins, carry rust and there is no get well or bed manner.
Peonies and ponies, buckets of blossoms,
Spit and fire and a miner’s hammer,
My coat of iron,
Oh mighty.
