America, The Dusty, Home of the Free
Lyrics by Michael Cole
Gather around children; Let me tell you a story,
‘Bout that old’ Dust Bowl, bout’ that great tragedy,
‘Bout the struggles of children, the old and weary,
But promise me this, remember the legacy…
I remember the first day, cold and chilly,
The wind was howling, I think ‘bout 60.
I was sitting on my porch, just reading Huck Finny,
When I look on the horizon, there it comes, straight for me…
A cloud of Dust, so thick it blots out the sun,
So high, it touched the heavens,
Made me jump up and run,
I’s run into my house, barred the door clean shut,
Then kneeled and prayed, for my home in the sun.
The cloud hit like a Rock, It made a big Ka-Thunk,
Flying straight through my walls, and into my junk,
Of a house. It was like hell, and I could all but remember,
Neither the day of that storm, nor how long it dragged on.
After that day, I began to worry,
Is Oklahoma just not for me?
After years of staying, it was clear to see,
I should pack up my bags and leave this old country.
I thought to myself, where should I go,
Maybe New York City… No for Show,
The Glamour there’s too sophisticated for me.
Perhaps California, heard that’s the place to be,
Good land, nice and warm, blue skies all around,
Plenty of rain for farms, jobs in availability.
California’s the Place for me.
Mile by Mile, Driving day by day,
In my Ford Model T, Radio blaring away,
‘Bout those Big Dust Storms in Oklahoma City,
‘Bout the medical Wards, Beds filled in 3 by 3,
‘Bout the children’s last embrace, before Death take ‘em to Thee,
To our father in Heaven, the one and only.
For I am not there, I am sure lucky.
I arrive in California, though I start to grope,
“This Land is not all that I had hoped”,
It seemed all of America struggled to make ends meet,
For even in Cali the streets were busy,
With bread lines, and beggars, I start to see,
America’s not what it used to be.
Is America the place for me?
