| Piece by lonely piece the mountainside tumbles away
|
| Back down to the river bottom lined with pocket worry stones
|
| A hundred years in hand worn smooth by long grandmother nights
|
| Sitting by the rocking chair waiting for the world
|
| Oh, if I could roll back all the years and talk to my daddy’s dad
|
| About all the fears I’m leaving in that maybe he had had
|
| I might get some light to shine down this dusty old dry well
|
| Hear the bucket hit the bottom and the rope come rolling by
|
| When three hundred years has been the time from whence it came
|
| Why hadn’t someone yet figured out to lower down the gun
|
| And shoot out the middle of this clawing, staring eye?
|
| Hear the bucket hit the bottom and the rope come rolling by
|
| Sitting by that old rocking chair waiting for the world |