Mouthful Of Dust
Words & Music © 2016 Jeffrey E. McCaskill. All Rights Reserved.
They ventured out West on a wing and a prayer
The promise of plenty so thick in the air
Hard people of faith who’d lost all their trust
Guess God don’t hear prayers when your mouth’s full of dust.
The roadside is littered with souls ‘long the way
A blown-out front tire might condemn you to stay
You drive by them slow, tell the kids not to stare
‘Tween nothin’ and somethin’ lay miles of despair.
CHORUS
You drive and you drive till the dust turns to sand
The sun seems to mock you, you breathe through your hands
Lord, where is that milk and the honey so fine?
Those pastures of plenty must be down the line.
The dark of the desert can swallow you up
Each rut is announced by the clang of a cup
The sound of a beggar who’s lost all his pride
The look of a man whose livelihood died.
The morning you get there, the cops lie in wait
With beer on their breath and their eyes full of hate
“You best have three bucks, or we’ll turn you away”
“Sir, I’ve only got two, and we’ve come all this way.”
CHORUS
He sneered as he jabbed an oak club in your side
“Get your ass down the road, friend, or I’ll have your hide.”
You drive by them slow, tell the kids not to stare
‘Tween nothin’ and somethin’ lay miles of despair.
They ventured out West on a wing and a prayer
The promise of plenty so thick in the air
Hard people of faith who’d lost all their trust
Guess God don’t hear prayers when your mouth’s full of dust.
The roadside is littered with souls ‘long the way
A blown-out front tire might condemn you to stay
You drive by them slow, tell the kids not to stare
‘Tween nothin’ and somethin’ lay miles of despair.
CHORUS
You drive and you drive till the dust turns to sand
The sun seems to mock you, you breathe through your hands
Lord, where is that milk and the honey so fine?
Those pastures of plenty must be down the line.
The dark of the desert can swallow you up
Each rut is announced by the clang of a cup
The sound of a beggar who’s lost all his pride
The look of a man whose livelihood died.
The morning you get there, the cops lie in wait
With beer on their breath and their eyes full of hate
“You best have three bucks, or we’ll turn you away”
“Sir, I’ve only got two, and we’ve come all this way.”
CHORUS
He sneered as he jabbed an oak club in your side
“Get your ass down the road, friend, or I’ll have your hide.”
You drive by them slow, tell the kids not to stare
‘Tween nothin’ and somethin’ lay miles of despair.
