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In the great depression
my grandfather was young.
With a penny to his name
he would scrape from train to train.

In the great depression
the only way was to sing.
He'd spit into the dust bowl
and make all the boxcars to ring.

Deep in one summer
he traded some beer and cigars
to a wifeless drifter in kentucky
for a six string acoustic guitar.

With time, with time, all dusty and dry
he calloused his fingers and beat on his thighs
'til he could wring out a leathery tune
like the last drop of water
coaxed at high noon.

And then, one night
as he picked at the teeth of his strings.
It came, It came
to him.
A melody like a new river
opened in the stone of a decade of trains
whistling through our thirsty veins.

Today is his burial
and no one remembers his tune
and the trains of his era
followed him into his tomb.
And oh, how he plucked out
his song for everyone
but the decade has dried out the echoes
of his song.