Willi Carlisle - Folk Art Masterpiece lyrics
[Willi Carlisle - Folk Art Masterpiece lyrics]
My grandmother grew up in a two room shack
The last of seven children
Used to dress in gunny sacks
She said that times were hard
Family scattered near and far
Like seeds into the dirt
Or the dimmest set of stars
And there's preachers every Sunday
muscodines each fall
I'd like to die in Arkansas if
I should die at all
You could call it alchemy
Some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun
Their garbage into gold
Cause I swear a square dance saved
My life one hot summer day
I swear I's bout to kill myself
I swear I's bound away
I swear I heard the voice of
God between the caller's cries:
An Ozark fiddle tune and a
Pretty girl's brown eyes
And there's preachers every Sunday
Muscodines each fall
I'd like to die in Arkansas if
I should die at all
I thought that bein' poor would
Weigh heavy on my soul
But it's a little drunken happiness like
This that makes me whole
And you say that anyone could make it
And I guess that's so
I guess I ain't Walt Whitman
I guess she ain't Van Gogh
You can't account for taste
But I know my north from south
And it's a goddamn folk art masterpiece
When she opens up her mouth
And there's preachers every Sunday
Muscodines each fall
I'd like to die in Arkansas if
I should die at all
You could call it alchemy
Some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun
Their garbage into gold
The last of seven children
Used to dress in gunny sacks
She said that times were hard
Family scattered near and far
Like seeds into the dirt
Or the dimmest set of stars
And there's preachers every Sunday
muscodines each fall
I'd like to die in Arkansas if
I should die at all
You could call it alchemy
Some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun
Their garbage into gold
Cause I swear a square dance saved
My life one hot summer day
I swear I's bout to kill myself
I swear I's bound away
I swear I heard the voice of
God between the caller's cries:
An Ozark fiddle tune and a
Pretty girl's brown eyes
And there's preachers every Sunday
Muscodines each fall
I'd like to die in Arkansas if
I should die at all
I thought that bein' poor would
Weigh heavy on my soul
But it's a little drunken happiness like
This that makes me whole
And you say that anyone could make it
And I guess that's so
I guess I ain't Walt Whitman
I guess she ain't Van Gogh
You can't account for taste
But I know my north from south
And it's a goddamn folk art masterpiece
When she opens up her mouth
And there's preachers every Sunday
Muscodines each fall
I'd like to die in Arkansas if
I should die at all
You could call it alchemy
Some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun
Their garbage into gold