Вершы: William Elliott Whitmore. Dry.

Well the song of the blackbird is mighty clear
On a mornin' such as this
And all those useless pains & fears
Those things that I won't miss

And the Morning Glories and Queen Anne's lace
Baptized by the wind
These inspirations are my saving grace
In these times we're living in

Make a hard man humble
Make a proud woman hide
Her eyes from the light of day
When all the crops have withered and died
And the soil has blown away
The ground is so dry
The river's on its hands and knees
And I hear that tune in the breeze
The crow is callin' and I hear him well
Up in the red bud tree
Any the stories that you've lived to tell
Pass 'em down to me

Whisper the truth
Into your childrens ears
Let them know
Let them understand
Let them hear
The song of the blackbird is mighty loud
Through the evening mist
The moon is up and it looks so proud
Lookin' down on a night, on a night like this