Name: Tricks of Their Own
Channel: Music: Heather T. Strong; Lyrics: Robert George

Tricks of Their Own

ipse Heather

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Album $8

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ipse Heather

Reminiscent of the sounds of Joni Mitchell, Carol King and Joan Baez, Heather T. Strong's music is idealistic, humorous and folksy. Most recently, she co-wrote

To all those who've added our music to your stations, THANK YOU!!! It's great to know who's out there listening to the songs!!!

Song Info

Genre

Acoustic • Acoustic Folk

Charts

Peak #226

Peak in subgenre #24

Author

Music: Heather T. Strong; Lyrics: Robert George

Rights

Heather T. Strong & Robert George

Uploaded

May 11, 2004

Track Files

MP3

MP3 3.9 MB • 128 kbps • 4:18

Lyrics

Sally lived a mongrel's life
muddy, rootless and sordid.
Sold into marriage for what 
fresh mules two bills afforded.
Her step-father's tiny face
nearly smothered in his smile.
He shook hands like amen, but had
the shadow of a reptile.
Now the noon train whistle blows
while her new good for nothing man 
drinks corn by a block of ice
in front of a window fan.
While she spins in a celler 
with the rats and rotting wood.
Light peeks through windows small as
eye holes in a hangman's hood.
 
When you walk to point your steps
and you're wand'ring alone
whether dim or bright, beware because the light
has tricks of it's own.
 
In the wild Tennessee wood 
she used to play and frolic.
But a red fox got her fawn, 
and her colt died of the colic.
And young Sal grew bitter when 
heaven seemed to hem and haw.
When her Ma we four months after
her Daddy died from lock jaw.
Rotting ties connect those rails,
her weak heart connects her men.
She swore if she got away,
she wouldn't be weak again.
Like a gold horse shoe, dawn's light
that day meant good luck for Sal.
Her man drew time for drunkeness,
two weeks labor on Lee Canal
 
When you walk to point your steps
and you're wand'ring all alone
If fortune's road pays, beware lucky days
have tricks of their own.
 
Well Sal she burned down that shack,
with whiskey and wood matches.
It blazed like the dark night hell
set fire to old Natchez.
And that curved moon was the crook
of a carney hawker's cane.
While she watched her yarn wheel burn,
it pulled her on a slow train.
Maybe somewhere in Georgia,
a seamstress might sojourn.
Even a house of blue lights, 
long as she didn't return.
Then someone struck a match 
and a silouette could be seen.
And though cupped hands hid his face,
his shadow was serpentine.
 
When you walk to point your steps,
and you're wand'ring all alone.
Walkin's time in vain,
but watch because trains,
have tricks of their own.

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