Ain’t Got No Home
Words and Music by Rick Hart, with verses by Woody Guthrie

Two billionaires were drinkin’, didn’t pay me no mind, singin'
“This land is your land, this land is mine.”
When I got home, well, the banker’s at my door, singin’,
“You ain’t got no home in this land anymore.”

You know, my job was in the factory but they moved it overseas
so they could move more profit by not paying you and me.
Then I worked in an office, but it moved to Bangalore.
Now I ain’t got no job in this land anymore.

Then I heard the Army takes U.S. refugees.
So now I serve my country and have place to live for free.
Out there killin’ in this  trillion dollar endless war
til I ain’t got no legs on this land anymore.

So I went down to Congress to see what millionaires could do,
But they wouldn’t let me in ‘cause I didn’t have no shoes.
They said to make things right, I’d have to pay them more.
Guess I ain’t got no say in this land anymore.

When I turned on the TV it was crazy like a fox.
Putting you and me against each other while the rich pick the locks.
Watching smoke and mirrors while they slip out the back door.
Now I can’t see a thing in this land anymore.

On election day I tried to choose one who ain’t no goat.
Ballot boxes stuffed with money. There ain’t no room for my vote.
They stole Lady Liberty then sold her like a whore.
Ain’t there no democracy in this land anymore?

Gonna put my money in local credit unions, out of big bank hands.
And I’ll buy my food from family farmers grown with honest hands.
And I’ll buy my stuff from local family business, no big store.
‘Cause I ain’t givin’ up on this land anymore.

In the square of the city, In the shadow of a steeple,
By the welfare office I seen my people;
They stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

As I was walking that ribbon of highway,
I saw above me that endless skyway:
I saw below me that golden valley:
This land was made for you and me.

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking my freedom highway,
Nobody living can make me turn back,
This land was made for you and me.

This land is your land. This land is my land
From California to the New York island;
From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and me.

This land is your land. This land is my land
From California to the New York island;
From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and me.

© ℗ 2012 Rick Hart, © ℗ 2012 Winding Path Music (BMI)
Last 5 verses © Copyright 1956 (renewed), 1958 (renewed),
1970 and 1972 by Woody Guthrie Publications, Inc. &
TRO-Ludlow Music, Inc. (BMI)

Fool on a Corner
He’s a fool on a corner, staring at his shoes,
wondering if there’s anyplace he won’t pay no dues.
Too tired of the traveling to pick up any clues.
Say buddy, got a dollar, and a dime?

He must have fallen off a dream and lost his way,
his will to love, and last weeks pay.
The devil picks up after him along the way.
Say Scratch, can’t you give me something that ain’t mine?

He’s stuck between his laughing youth,
the yawning grave, and the twisted truth.
Another draft horse gone bad in the tooth.
Man, it happens all the time.

People say he's crazy. Say he'll never make it back.
But he didn't go far enough, so he's tangled up in slack.
You'd think a leap of faith meant falling through the cracks.
Say, Doc. Put it over ice, with a twist of lime.

He’s turned his life into an unwanted guest.
He don’t care anymore if he’s cursed or he’s blessed.
He’s just falling apart so he can get some rest.
Say, Jesus, got a little bread, a little wine?

He watched his heroes get shot and packaged under the flag
while the Constitution was bound and gagged,
and the guilty wept as they sold its rags.
Hey jester, are you laughing, or are you crying?

Well, he would’ve run for office, but that’d be running from the law.
He’d run a major corporation, but he’d have to grow a claw.
He’d be a man of vision, but he was blinded by what he saw.
Say Bacchus, let me try some of your wine.

He’s stuck between his laughing youth,
the yawning grave, and the twisted truth.
Where self-righteous perform like John Wilkes Boothe.
Yeah. Time after time.

One more fool on a corner, empty pockets, empty hands.
You’d think he had enough to get up and make a stand.
How ‘bout some traveling music for that one man band?
Say Monk, something in 3/4 time.

Maybe someday you can see him waxing down his wings,
and look in a child’s eyes where there’s no judgments or kings,
and chance what he’s got left so he can hear love when it sings.
Man, it happens all the time.

© ℗ 2000 Rick Hart

Ponca City Blues
I got them Ponca City Blues. There’s no place you’d rather be.
You’re just living in the past, and you just won’t set it free.
Every time I hold you, baby, I never know if you’re holding me.

You say you need a little time ‘cause you gotta let it run its course.
Well, take another look, ‘cause you’re sitting on a runaway horse.
Around that vicious circle, straight into one more divorce.

Now if I didn’t love you babe, you know I wouldn’t try so hard.
I’d of packed up long ago and sent you some kind of get well card.
I’ve been living for the day you live for love in your own back yard.
Come on, babe.

Oh, come on baby. Don’t you think you might just talk to somebody.
Oh, never mind. You don’t want to go.
You don’t understand, so what do I know?
I only cry a lot. I got to find a way to stop these

Ponca City blues. There’s no place you’d rather be.
Yeah, you keep living in the past, and that ain’t no place for me.
Guess it’s time for me to think about someplace I’d rather be.

Someday, if you wake up, you’ll see me in a flash.
You’ll say, “Who was that guy that used to take out the trash?”
No more, babe. That’s why I’m leaving you. Today.
And now for the bad news. Ponca City ain’t on my way.

© ℗ 2000 Rick Hart

While You Gently Rest
Deepened sun and darken blue
   they turn to hold Earthen slumber and you,
   and move through the stars while you gently rest,
   and day into dream swirls inside.

Breathing slow and full of sleep,
   and with the Earth, laden so still and deep,
   may peace cover you and love hold you near,
   and on colors of your soul you ride.

© ℗ 1990 Rick Hart

See What You're Made Of
So how you going to leave your sweet Mama Earth,
lover of the sun, child of rain and dirt?
She feeds you life.
You poison her breast
and eat while you watch her die away.
Now, if you can't taste the poison, what are you made of?

Why you take it all, even what little is left,
then you grab your gun and look down your nose at theft?
How 'bout your choices out on the street,
while they watch you drive away?
When you find out later what you've got,
see what you're made of.

Wall to wall, we're locked in the human race.
So many colors locked into one face.
Remember, when you’re hungry for hatred and blood,
when you kill a man, your brother dies first.
If you think you’re alive when it’s over,
see what you’re made of.
    Your brother, your sister, and your child.

So you’re selling justice hand over fist.
You know she won’t be one with you until she’s kissed.
How many innocent are you taking down
while you plead that you’re only fighting crime?
Hey. You missed a bloodstain.
You can see what you’re made of.

You can die in your money while scavengers stake their claim.
You can die in the arms of love without a name.
How ‘bout the child who’s looking at you?
If you turn away, is he just like you?
Turn around.
See what you’re made of.

You want me to think.
You want me to think like you.
Mister, here’s a headline – this is my home, too.
It’s falling apart. Enough has been done.
Turn around. Open your hand.
Think it’s time to see what else you’re made of.

© ℗ 2000 Rick Hart

Feeding the Beast (A Year in the Life)
I was working on the day they hauled the factory away.
We just stood there, looking for a sign.
It said, “We moved overseas where the children work for free.
By the way, you’re laid off. But you’ll be fine.

So I went to the bank, but the damn thing sank
through the ground while the band began to play.
Then I saw a dancing suit with his pockets full of loot
sing, “I guess I’ll be on my way.”

Somebody yelled, “Slob, why can’t you hold a job!”
while I was standing in the employment line.
A homeless cussed him out while the counselor said, “I doubt
you’ll find a job for a long time.”

I walked outside into a drive-by,
bullets flying and folks like falling clay.
I don’t know why I did, but I grabbed the nearest kid
and said, “I guess we’ll be on our way.”

The kid kicked and he swore til I dove through a door.
We looked up and saw an Army man.
‘Said, “You’re an army of one.” “Say. What the hell’s that, son?”
“How ‘bout a job.” I took the pen from his hand.

Next thing I know, I’m praying for snow
smack dab in the Middle of the East.
I was trying to ask why God’s always on our side,
but we were busy feeding the beast.

Well, I fought 20 days, then watched my buddies pay
for folks who smile in their sleep.
We watch our leaders lie, but we never ask them why
we’re the joke that history repeats.

Makes it hard to laugh sitting on this Golden Calf.
I guess I thought they gave a damn.
Well, I’ve had enough. I’ll just get my stuff
and be on my way ‘for I forget who I am.

When I jumped off  the float, they grabbed my by the coat and said,
“The government’s got another job for you.
Won’t you be a poster boy for another little ploy?”
I said, “Man, don’t you have a clue?”

He said, “The world just bends and breaks!!
Why, with every step it shakes!!
We’ve got to cover it, save it, for all mankind!!
I said, “I’ll have to pass. You’re just talking about your ass.
You’re talking about losing mine.
For what?

When the Army let me go, I was knee deep in snow,
trying to find a place to make a stand.
Working in the city, dodging cons and pity,
trying to make a buck and lend a hand.

Then I met a woman who’s heart was strummin’
the music I love to play.
So we picked up my check, jumped in my old wreck.
She said, “I hope we can find our way.”

She said, “We’ve got to make a better day, now.
For the huddled, the children, and the stray, now.
To keep the dark at bay, now.

©
1992 Rick Hart

Slip Off the Line
Well, you know there’s going to come a time
when your life slips off the line,
and you can feel the whole world screaming
for what you own, for your time, for your flesh
til you feel like you’re dreaming.

So you think you’re going to find a way
to have it all and just not pay,
til you see the world is only waiting
for what you own, for your time, for your flesh
til you know you are screaming.

What will it be? Where you gonna stand when you
slip off the line?

Then you see you’re like everyone.
Fine clothes on a skeleton.
On your arms are strapped the same long spoons.
All that food you can’t reach to your mouth,
so nobody gets anything to eat.

So you run scared into the next room.
The same food. The same long spoons.
But now your hunger just grows deeper.
For a word. For a smile. For a touch.
They are feeding each other.

What will it be? Where you gonna stand when you
slip off the line?

© ℗ 2000 Rick Hart