Lyrics

My granddaddy read that Bible, page by page by lightin’ bugs
Walked the hills with boots of silence, dug his truth out from the mud
He said “Boy, this land remembers, more than names or preacher’s songs—
Some things ain’t illegal, but they still feel dead and wrong.”


And no, the well ain’t poisoned—but the water’s cryin’ slow
And the smile she gave the sheriff had a tremble down below
It didn’t come from shadows, and it didn’t howl at night—
It stood just left of mercy, in the corner outta sight.


There’s a garden full o’ butterflies where nothin’ ever dies
But the folks who sat too close to it forgot their kids’ first cries
And the witch who built that paradise, she didn’t curse the spring—
She just watched the flowers shiver while she fiddled with her rings.


And no, the well ain’t poisoned—but the bucket feels too clean
And the rope don't creak like it used to, since the air went cold and mean
You’ll taste the cold in August, smell the salt where there’s no sea—
Some wrongs don’t bleed or holler—they just quietly agree.


There’s a door behind the drywall, there’s a map in Daddy’s eyes
There’s a pattern in the way she speaks, too careful and too wise
And when Granddaddy sat real still, and let the Bible fall—
He said, “Some truths don’t need preachin’. They don’t speak. They crawl.”


He saw math in every whisper, drew the Wrong Thing’s route by hand
Marked it low and left in every house that wouldn’t stand
And when it came for him one time, from behind a garden gate—
He smiled right back and whispered, “You’re a little late.”


And no, the well ain’t poisoned—but it knows your given name
And the water pulls your shadow down before you feel the shame
If you ever feel a presence when there ain’t a single light—
Don’t look left, just leave the room.
Don’t ask.
It ain’t polite.