Someone once called my songs "acoustic punk in slow motion." To most people it just seems folky but with some vinegar.
Lyrics
Across the Sky
In the fall of Nineteen Twenty-One
Henry’s mother had her second son
Henry found his place beside
The wicker carriage where he used to ride
Soon his brother learned how to walk
Mangled Henry’s name when he tried to talk
One day they both came down with the flu
One was carried off, and the other pulled through
Chorus
Talk about the angels, talk about a heavenly home
All Henry really knew was he’d been left alone
He would sit and try to figure how and why
Some little scrap could find its way across the sky
In the spring of Nineteen Fifty-Five
Henry’s youngest was barely alive
They cracked his ribs and they looked inside
Closed him up while the nurses cried
Ten days later, Henry fell apart
At the very last flutter of a baby’s heart
Henry held his wife and the rest
Of their children, and he tried his best
(with) Talk about the angels, talk about a heavenly home
All Henry really knew was he’d been left alone
Henry’d sit and try to figure how and why
Some little scrap could find its way across the sky
Henry was an engineer of tides and water tables
Believed what he could see and hear,
The rest were lies and fables
Two Thousand Seven, nursing home deck
Braces propping up Henry’s neck
The light has left this August day
Time to wheel him in, but he smacks them away
For all they see, his mind is gone
Bound to his chair, staring out at the lawn
At the sparks that move in lines and rings
Sparks that move on firefly wings
And he doesn’t think about angels, or being carried home
But all the gears are turning as Henry sits alone
And he’s slumping to one side and a spark is rising high
One little scrap is finding its way across the sky
Lyrical brilliance with perfectly pitched delivery. An absolute beauty Joan.