Crescent Valley Creek

It was a ribbon laid by some ancient rain
it ran from the hills to the Crescent Valley plain
young Liza Jane was shy as a midnight shadow
eyes down as she hauled pails across the meadow
golden locks framed a face lovely but gaunt
tornadoes left her motherless and full of want
Liza and her pa lived in a tin-roof farming shack
ev'ry night she'd bathe and bring soup water back

from the Crescent Valley Creek

they put soapstones on their stove during autumn storms
then slip them in their cots to keep their feet warm
their bellies leaned on spuds and bulbs and spinach
so they worshipped the ground like a graven image
but some baron who wanted water shot their milkcow
then he hired a gun to run them off somehow
Liza'd stand on the porch to make sure the wind stood still
then she'd walk to the water and her tears would spill

in the Crescent Valley Creek

there's a stairway from the stars to the dust
it's only natural to feed on those under us
bone-handled knives make beaver-tailed hats and bear-skinned rugs
for some reason flesh survives by shedding blood
but under the heavens all men are brothers
and it's wrong to make bread of one another
Liza thought being poor showed how her life'd be spent
each night she saw how forever seemed to ferment

in the Crescent Valley Creek
the Crescent Valley Creek

a thin red blanket lay upon the twilight hills
the moon hung low and shone on a mallard's bill
Liza's pa saw the rider and made her run and hide
so she crawled down in the storm cellar outside
she heard the rider kill her pa and leave him to rot
eyes full of violet shade and a chest full of shot
for so long life had been just her and him
now it seemed they were barely ripples in

the Crescent Valley Creek
the Crescent Valley Creek
the Crescent Valley Creek

Liza snuck out and stuck that killer with a pitchfork
he squealed like a pig but had neither soul or pork
she pushed him toward the hole and he hit the cellar floor
then spit down in the darkness and kicked dirt over the door
she buried her pa near a patch of dandelions
looked up and said a prayer to the lights of Orion
she hoped she was born closer to the sky than sand
and heaven shone down as she washed her bloody hands

in the Crescent Valley Creek
the Crescent Valley Creek
she hoped she was born closer to the sky than sand
and heaven shone down as she washed her bloody hands
in the Crescent Valley Creek

(c)2003 Robert George




[This message has been edited by couchgrouch (edited 12-28-2003).]


Nashville demos etc:

https://www.soundclick.com/bands3/default.cfm?bandID=431939

other demos:

https://soundcloud.com/wabash-cannibal

Amazon Kindle books by Robert George you may enjoy:

1) Americana

2) Teenage Graceland

3) The Will to Be

4) Fort Mystery

5) Wheel Sea

6) My One True Love