“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” —Carl Sagan
We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed
Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan
Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune
Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon
Work and pray, live on hay, you’ll get pie in the sky when you die.
Got preachers’ choirs at tent meetings tapping their toes
Rocked the half-time gigs at wild cowgirl rodeos
Blew the roof off the upmarket roadhouse show
Then the scent of pie in the sky tickled the nose
God’s always got a custard pie up his sleeve.
Got corralled by a wrangler slick as an oil rig
Refusing his offer would have been infra dig
He pointed up and told us that we’d made it big
Said sky pie rises higher than a beehive wig
I’ve heard every pie joke in the book. I’m still waiting for an original one.
Since trading our low life for a penthouse view
We miss the choirs, cowgirls, and the roadhouse roof too
But mostly we pine for a pie on the range in lieu
Of a pie in the sky, and that’s the Squeeze Box Blues
“Everyone in my life who is important, they feed me humble pie.”
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