Don Henley A Month Of Sundays
A Month Of Sundays
by Don Henley
I used to work for Harvester. I used to use my hands.
I used to make the tractors and the combines 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 back in fifty-seven. Had some time for farmin' then.
The 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 reigns in my hands; felt the soft ground under my feet.
Between the hot dry weather and the taxes and the cold war it's hard to make ends meet,
But I always put the clothes on their backs. I always put the shoes on their feet.
My grandson comes home from college and 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.
I sit here in earshot of the bypass and all night I listen to the rushin' of the wheels.
Music Interlude
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 it.
Folks these days just don't do nothin' simply for the love of it.
I went into town on the fourth of July. Watched 'em parade past the Union Jack.
Watched them break out the brass and beat on the drum. One step forward and two steps back.
And I saw a sign on easy street. It said, "Be prepared to stop -
Pray for the independent middle man," But I don't see next year's crop.
And I sit here on the backporch 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.
