A Month of Sundays
written: D. Henley

I used to work for Harvester
I used to use my hands
I used to make the tractors and the combine
That plowed and harvested this great land
Now I see my handiwork on the block everywhere I turn
And I see the clouds 'cross the weathered faces
And I watch the harvest burn

I quit the plant in '57
Had some time for farmin' then
Banks back then was lendin' money
The banker was the farmer's friend
I've seen dog days and dusty days;
Late spring snow and early fall sleet;
I've held the leather reins in my hands
And felt the soft ground under my feet
Between the hot, dry weather and the taxes, and the Cold War
It's been hard to make ends meet
But I always kept the clothes on our backs;
I always put the shoes on our feet

My grandson, he comes home from college
He says, "We get the government we deserve"
My son-in-law just shakes his head and says,
"That little punk, he never had to serve."
And I sit here in the shadow of suburbia
And look out across these empty fields
And I sit here in earshot of the bypass
And all night I listen to the rushin' of the wheels

The big boys, they all got computers; got incorporated, too
Me, I just know how to raise things
That was all I ever knew
Now, it all comes down to numbers
Now I'm glad that I have quit
Folks these days just don't do nothin' simply for the love of it

I went in the town on the Fourth of July
Watched 'em parade past the Union Jack
Watched 'em break out the brass and beat on the drum
One step forward and two steps back
And I saw a sign on Easy Street, said, "Be Prepared to Stop."
Pray for the independent, little man
I don't see next year's crop
And I sit here on the back porch in the twilight
And I hear the crickets hum
I sit and watch the lightning in the distance
But the showers never come
I sit here and listen to the wind blow
I sit here and rub my hands
I sit here and listen to the clock strike
And I wonder when I'll see my companion again

 

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