Brute Florist - Handing Out Shovels

This is a letter to the ones who were there
Handing out shovels at the county faire
Weren't any handles to fit my hands
So I carried the clarinets for the band

Not my concern if you don't see
Why this business is following me
I should let go and maybe that's true
But that's never ever gonna satisfy you

When the sun comes up
And the dew drops dry
Save me a little
In the corner of your eye
Probably won't write
And I may not call
But you'll hear me singing in the road

This is a letter to the ones who were there
Picking up checks for holding down chairs
Maybe you're lucky and maybe that's true
But luck nor love is gonna satisfy you

The moon lays heavy and low in the sky
Everybody knows what comes before light
By the dawn's break I know you'll be there
Handing out the shovels at the county faire

Ah

When the sun comes up
And the dew drops dry
Save me a little
In the corner of your eye
Probably won't write
And I may not call
But you'll hear me singing in the road

Written by:
Dan Crandall

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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