The poetry of John Prine

Well, it got so hot last night I swear
you couldn't hardly breathe
a heat lightning burned the sky like alcohol
I sat on the porch without my shoes
and watched the cars roll by
as the headlights raced to the corner of the kitchen wall

Mama dear your boy is here, far across the sea
waiting for that sacred core that burns inside of me
and I feel the storm, all wet and warm, not ten miles away
approaching my Mexican home

'Oh my God', I cried, `it's so hot inside
you could die in your living room'
take a fan from the window
prop the door back with a broom
the cuckoo clock has died of shock and the windows feel no pain
the air's as still as the throttle on a funeral train

Mama dear, your boy is here, far across the sea
waiting for that sacred core that burns inside of me
and I feel a storm, all wet and warm, not ten miles away
approaching my Mexican home

Well my father died on the porch outside
on an August afternoon
I sipped bourbon and cried with a friend by the light of the moon
So it's hurry, hurry, step right up!
It's a matter of life or death
The sun is going down and the moon is just holding its breath

Mama dear your boy is here, far across the sea
waiting for that sacred core that burns inside of me
and I feel a storm, all wet and warm, not ten miles away,
approaching my Mexican home