Lyrics
There were men who were born to tell stories
Their voices gruff and plain
They used the chords of the people
And showed us our own face
And the songs grew legs and walked among
Pretty girls who sang them a little more sweetly
But they were still hummed in the workshops
Where plain folks did their jobs
Here they come, meetin’ me in the kitchen
Hear that hum, after supper pickin’
Drop that rag, seeking that tone
The melody is rising like steam from the stove
Melodious women have woven
Intricate baskets of notes
And they saw prose in the shadows
Where regular people don’t
But we are all just looking out
For junkyards and mountains to sing about
And the songs of the girls catch in the throats
Of the truckers hauling their loads