Post by stephengodfrey on May 15, 2011 18:27:12 GMT -5
Coal mines and lillac bushes,
Children playing on the Tipple,
Jumping off Coal Cars, smudged
With the dust of destiny.
Creek black as night, coal
Dust in crack and crevice.
Complay Store, script high prices,
And "16 tons and what do you get."
Carbide lamps and canaries,
Different colors, but the same tune;
Hidden in the shadows, holler,
Arista Mountain Coal Camp.
Saturday night fiddle and banjo-
Dancing till dawn in Spats.
Sunday morning hangover,
Church and repentence.
Five children, stair steps,
Two resting in the good earth.
Children working dawn to dusk,
Cleaning, hoeing, mowing the
Only yard in Coal Camp.
Paw Paw a preacher man.
Used to hit the jug.
Playing the banjo-
Cutting a rug.
Playing them Coal Camp Blues,
With friends who paid their dues.
Mountain men with powdered faces,
And hunched over backs.
Paw Paw's a man of God now,
Used to be part of the riot squad.
Rough and rowdy eyes,
Transformed into morning doves.
Coal Camp Blues sung no more.
The Old Timers sit on cane chairs,
Long for the old days.
Sitting and spitting, reminicing
With a tear rolling down cheeks.
Children playing on the Tipple,
Jumping off Coal Cars, smudged
With the dust of destiny.
Creek black as night, coal
Dust in crack and crevice.
Complay Store, script high prices,
And "16 tons and what do you get."
Carbide lamps and canaries,
Different colors, but the same tune;
Hidden in the shadows, holler,
Arista Mountain Coal Camp.
Saturday night fiddle and banjo-
Dancing till dawn in Spats.
Sunday morning hangover,
Church and repentence.
Five children, stair steps,
Two resting in the good earth.
Children working dawn to dusk,
Cleaning, hoeing, mowing the
Only yard in Coal Camp.
Paw Paw a preacher man.
Used to hit the jug.
Playing the banjo-
Cutting a rug.
Playing them Coal Camp Blues,
With friends who paid their dues.
Mountain men with powdered faces,
And hunched over backs.
Paw Paw's a man of God now,
Used to be part of the riot squad.
Rough and rowdy eyes,
Transformed into morning doves.
Coal Camp Blues sung no more.
The Old Timers sit on cane chairs,
Long for the old days.
Sitting and spitting, reminicing
With a tear rolling down cheeks.