Southern Cane Rhythm

Yeah,

ninety-two on the machine.

Dust on the needle,

gold in the groove.

Check it.

Underneath the copper sky,

the shadow gets to stretching wide Heavy step on gravel where the

secrets and the sins collide I kept the ledger clean,

but the ink is running out of time Trading all my patience

for a portion of a simple dime They build the towers tall

just to watch the plaster fall away But we survived the winter

in a house of clay

No silver

spoons, just a copper key to open doors Leaving boot prints on

the polished marble floors We learned to listen to the whispers in

the drafty hall And write our heavy truths upon the cellar wall

It's the weight of the clay,

the price of the gold The stories in the soil that have

never been told

Keep the record spinning where the iron is cold Yeah,

we never bought the promise that was sold

The engine hums a hymn on the state line,

keeping time Counting every mile like a slowly built design They sell

the future cheap, but the memory is premium I find my peace

inside this heavy, dusty medium No digital facades,

just the iron and the timber frame A quiet kind of pride

that doesn't need a famous name

So let the needle ride on the worn-out edge Every single word

is a promise and a pledge We planted deep roots in the

center of the storm Kept the hearth burning just to keep the

spirit warm

It's the weight of the clay,

the price of the gold The stories in the soil that have

never been told

Keep the record spinning where the iron is cold Yeah,

we never bought the promise that was sold

Just ninety-two beats per minute of truth.

Keep it spinning.

From the clay up.

Yeah.