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