|
[ar: Laura Gibson] |
|
[ti: La Grande] |
|
[id: pvoozpsb] |
| [00:06.64] |
When the moon carves a trail down the pine-bearded hills |
| [00:14.58] |
And a ghost-wind hollers to the early morn |
| [00:18.98] |
And the starlings return to the old sugar mill |
| [00:23.92] |
Stealing their corn from the grower's field |
| [00:28.92] |
Oh, I'll be no more |
| [00:37.86] |
When we've covered our hands in the bone-white clay |
| [00:43.04] |
And we've shaken the dust from every boot and spur |
| [00:47.92] |
We have counted our days in planks and rails |
| [00:52.98] |
We have kept our spirits in the dancing halls |
| [00:57.60] |
Oh, I'll be no more |
| [01:05.60] |
When a cold corner stage in the back of the room |
| [01:21.86] |
Holds a house band carrying an orphan tune |
| [01:26.79] |
I would swing, I would sway, I would pull my hips |
| [01:31.98] |
To the sad chorus playing on the overheads |
| [01:36.54] |
Oh, I'll be no more |
| [01:43.54] |
Oh, I'll be no more |
| [01:56.23] |
Still to this day |
| [01:58.60] |
I can hear the whistle blow |
| [02:00.92] |
I can smell the sage burn |
| [02:03.54] |
I may be as old and stubborn as a pine |
| [02:09.11] |
But I am just as wild as the young |
| [02:22.29] |
When a ribbon is curved round the blue-shadowed hills |
| [02:50.48] |
And the hot steel is humming down the Union Line |
| [02:55.35] |
Whip-thin, hickory-black, tap-tapping |
| [03:00.23] |
Our sad-faced chatter into rhythm and rhyme |
| [03:05.54] |
Oh, I'll be no more |
| [03:14.04] |
Oh, I'll be no more |
