They be just like 'em there where that barn stood,
that come for nothing but some rotten old wood.
They be picked up by the wind and travelin’ ‘round,
listening to the box cars making their sounds.
They dirty up the sidewalk and they huddle by a diner
They known by them chords, the old strumming A minor.
I’ve seem with my headlights along the night streets,
The keep their heads down so them eyes never meet.
I see them dry stalks that stick out of the snow,
like them seeds they hunker down when winter winds blow.
They’ve got them shoes that walk a thousand miles,
can stand in the cold to build up kindling pile.
Heretics of the order upon which their freedom sews.
They be a lesson in life of how everything grows.
God knows the reason for the things called weeds.
Never seen anything as strong as one of them seeds.