The Dispatch from a Dusty Road

The sun came up on Oregon, on a town called Grants Pass Where the highest court has spoken, through a pane of polished glass Said the law can move you onward if you've got no roof or door A blanket on the pavement ain't a home, not anymore And the justices in their black robes, they have drawn a brand new line While someone folds their cardboard, for the hundredth, thousandth time. Oh, the wheels of state are turning, the ink is on the page It's a story I've heard often, from a different kind of age

With different names and different towns, a different-looking sky But the same old human questions, and the same old reasons why The powerful will argue, and the poor will pay the cost Just another headline found, for a ballad to get lost. Tonight the lights burn hot in Georgia, on a stark and empty stage Two old men will face each other, filled with history and rage One who's there and one who's been there, both want the chair again Trading words like cannon fire, for the hearts of weary men

The whole world leans in closer, to watch the coming fight For a scepter and a paper crown, beneath the television light. Oh, the wheels of state are turning, the ink is on the page It's a story I've heard often, from a different kind of age With different names and different towns, a different-looking sky But the same old human questions, and the same old reasons why The powerful will argue, and the poor will pay the cost Just another headline found, for a ballad to get lost.

The summer's breath is heavy, the heat is on the land And the price of bread and gasoline, is more than folks had planned From the courtroom to the podium, the noise is loud and grand But the quiet truths are whispered, in the palm of a working hand They talk of polls and rulings, of who will rise and fall But out here on the highway, you can barely hear it all. Oh, the wheels of state are turning, the ink is on the page It's a story I've heard often, from a different kind of age

With different names and different towns, a different-looking sky But the same old human questions, and the same old reasons why The powerful will argue, and the poor will pay the cost Just another headline found, for a ballad to get lost.