Still working on recording this one

Image: Howard Street, called “Skid Row,” the street of the unemployed in San Francisco, California U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information LC-DIG-fsa-8b31684

Lyrics:

“Liquidate, liquidate,” you money men say
And trust us that things’ll get better some day”
Sir when my dreams have all dried up and been blowed away
How long do you want me to wait?

“Trust Mr. Market,” you wise men opine
“Just stay the course and things’ll be fine”
When there’s a hundred men with me in this Bowery bread line
How long do you want us to wait?

First the factory cut hours, and then it went bust
Now the gates are encrusted with two years’ worth of rust
And we’re all out of money, hope, patience and trust—
We can hardly afford to wait

When you’ve been homeless and hungry and hopeless and cold
On account of the fat bill of goods you’ve been sold
And there’s 10 million workers for whom there’s no use
“Have faith in your betters” is a sorry excuse
No sir, the time for waitin’s well past

‘Cause when the poor and the idled demand what they’re owed
And all of you fat cats must reap what you’ve sowed
From the yachts off Nantucket to the end of Skid Road—
On that day we’ll see justice at last

Still working on recording this one

Image:  Drought-stricken farmer and family near Muskogee, Oklahoma. Agricultural day laborer. Muskogee County U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information LC-USF34-016107-C

Lyrics:

I wish there was a star baby
That we could hitch our wagon to
Or that we could find the well out there
Just waiting for the penny
That’s gonna make all our dreams come true

‘Cause it’s felt a long time coming lately
A little luck for me and you
Long enough to make me worry
Maybe we can’t muddle through

Fact is I can’t win for losing
And though you never lay down blame
We can’t eat if I ain’t working
That’s all on me, all the same

If wishes were horses I’d be leading
Six white chargers ‘round the bend
But no matter how much we believe in ‘em
Hopes and dreams are still pretend

If wishes were horses I’d be riding
A fine black charger up the hill
But wishes ain’t been feedin’ us—
And I don’t think they ever will

Seeing as there’s no jobs for taking
And I ain’t a beggar nor a thief
With our babies’ bellies aching–
There’s no choice but to seek Relief

How I wish there was a job baby
For every pair of idled hands
That before these hard times built these factories
Laid these roads and farmed these lands

‘Cause if working was a right darling
I’d throw my all at any task
While we’re hoping and we’re dreaming
That don’t seem so much to ask

Still working on recording this one

Image:  Tubercular wife and daughter of agricultural day laborer. She had lost six of her eight children and the remaining two were pitifully thin. The mother said that she had tuberculosis because she had always gone back to the fields to work within two or three days after her children were born. Shack home is on Poteau Creek near Spiro, Oklahoma  U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information LC-USF34- 033601-D

Lyrics:

The wages of sin
Are gilding the lily
In backrooms that poor folk aren’t privy to see

The wages of sin
Are feathering nests sir
Behind guards and gates shut against you and me

The wages of sin
In the Devil’s own ledger
Sum up what bosses suck out of what workers put in

Gleeful bankers and bosses
Pile their loot to inspect
Without a care for the blood and tears spilt to collect
The wages of sin

Through force fraud and failure
To do justice to all
By the crony, the grifter, and the back-pocket pol
By a sweetheart deal
Or the company store
Anything to squeeze working folks a bit more

The wages of sin
Are death on the prairies
And in boweries and small towns across this hard land
Turning factories and farms
Into cemeteries
In the name of almighty “Supply and Demand”
For a hungry hollow eyed kid
Or a desperate young mother
Or a homeless heartbroken shell of a man

The wages of sin
Ought to be a down payment
On the day debits and credits are squared up and true
And the rich and their lackeys
Are called to account
And the poor man lays claim to what the poor man is due

Still working on recording this one

Image: Street musicians, Maynardville, Tennessee U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information LC-USF33- 006139-B-M1

Lyrics:

The rich man has got his story down pat:
“Those with the most deserve all they gat”
‘Cause the field is level and the rules are all fair
And those at the top deserve being born there
While the fella unemployed for so much as one day
Must’ve done something to make it that way

The rich and the poor deserve what they’ve got–
That’s the tale the bosses have spun
We’ll sing the real what’s-what about the haves-and-have-nots
In these hard times hundred and one

They say the market’s our friend, the market’s our king
And we can trust Mr. Market with most anything
Yet the poor man must fear that the wages he’s due
Will be stolen by those with the means
‘Cause those with the power rent pols by the hour
To stack the deck behind the scenes

They’ll seize what they please and cap the workingman’s knees
With the law or a Pinkerton’s gun
We’ll call out their  wheeling and dealing to legalize stealing
In these hard times hundred and on

The rich man profits from the poor man’s sweat
That’s nothing new under the sun
We’ll remind anyone inclined to forget
With these hard times hundred and one

These hard times hundred and one my friend
Hard times hundred and one
We’ll bear witness in rhyme and four-four time
With these hard times hundred and one

Still working on recording this one

Image Envoy, formerly Meridian Mansions, 2400 16th St. Couple at table on balcony at Meridian Mansions II   Theodor Horydczak Collection (Library of Congress) LC-H814-T-1569-011     

Lyrics

I saw a light on in your window, a silhouette against the glow
From far below where I stood wishing I could be your Romeo
When you went to church on Sunday I’d go early and stay late
Mark the calendar on Monday I’ve got six more days to wait
For your daddy at the wheel of that big black Cadillac
With you sitting like an angel down from Heaven in the back

For us down in the valley there’s aching backs than wings
Far from your house up on the hilltop with all its pretty things
Come Friday night we rub our skin to take away the smell
Of the work week at the tannery or factory or at the drilling well

And we linger while the rich boys all line up to take their shot
With their pocket squares and pedigrees and things we haven’t got
You think about who-has-what and all that sort of stuff—
When you’re putting on a Sunday best that ain’t half good enough

All them rich boys were keen to woo you, but you coolly passed them by
And it was plain to see you thought better of me, when I caught your eye
Every stolen kiss hid a scandal—still I admit I wished the world could see
Each time out in back of the churchyard when you were waiting there, for me

When your Daddy came to see mine, he had this to say:
“It’d be better son, for everyone, if you spend some time away”
He drove me to the county line in that big black Cadillac—
But keep your light on in the window, baby, someday I’ll be back

Still working on recording this one

Image Detroit, Michigan. A Venetian night party at the Detroit yacht club, whose members represent the wealthier class of manufacturers and their friends. Chummy couple in a boat U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Black & White Photographs LC-USW3- 016569-C

Lyrics

I ain’t nothing, but I ain’t dumb—
I’ve seen stacked decks and short straws
I know what it is to get the runaround
And I’ve been watching how it all goes down—
How all the high-five bling-bling accolades
Get heaped on the privileged in this world

You’ve been walking with your nose in the air
It’s a long shot honey you could even see me from way up there
You’ve bought diamonds with your boyfriends’ dough
That you wave around drinking Dom Perignon
At the kind of parties where I don’t go
You’ve been flaunting what you’re wearing everywhere
Laughing at the hoi polloi when they stop and stare

Well that’s entertainment, of the social set sort—
Running ‘round living your life like it’s a spectator sport
But if you get bored with pretend and pretense
You might find you’d like running with me on my side of the fence
No I don’t account for much in dollars and cents
I ain’t Silver Spoon-upper crust-Ivy-League-spare no expense

See I ain’t no one—but I’m a man—
Not some stuffed-shirt-pocket square-show and tell-also ran
‘Cause I ain’t trying to be more than I am—
So when you want a different kind of a deal
Come down and see me ma’am

Still working no recording this one

Image Farm Security Administration (FSA) migratory labor camp. Brawley, California. Father is home after a day in the pea fields. Note tent platform, standard equipment in Farm Security Administration camps  U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Black & White Photographs LC-USF34- 019319-E

Lyrics

Some days son it seems
Like the whole wide world is crying
Despairing that we’ll never ever see
The dawning of the day
When the poor man gets some justice—
No son, not me

Some days son it seems
Like the whole wide world is lying
‘Cause no one sees a buck in honesty
And we oughta exchange a sinner’s wage
For a liar’s stock in trade—
No  son, not me

And some days son it seems
Like there ain’t no use in trying
To fight against a rising tide of greed
And we oughta let hard work’s just reward
Be quietly ignored
No son, not me

And some days on it seems
Like the whole world’s getting weaker
And in hard times men wont have the strength to fight
And’ll meekly bear their crosses
For the bankers and the bosses—
No son, not you nor I

And some days son it seems
Like the whole world’s getting meaner
And the milk of human kindness must run dry
So we’d forget the names and faces
Of the very least among us
No son, never you nor I