She'd fry a mess o' bacon, cook a pot o' beans,
It was her Grandma's recipe, waydown in New Orleans
In a big midwestern city, girders groan and strain
She's living in a walk-up, at 43rd and Main
She's fatter than her mama, bigger than the blues
Louder than the comics in the Sunday news
Cigs in the breadbox, sugar on the shelf
If a man don't come to fill it, she'll fill it up herself
Sunday in the church pew, Sparrow on the wing
Sweat is pouring off of you, listen to her sing
Sunday in the church pew, Sparrow come and gone
Hard not to wonder how she looks with nothing on
Where's the money come from, where's a dollar go?
Children get a stern hand of guidance and the glow
When the tower crumbles, Daughter will be there
Sitting with the witness in the hospital chair
Send a card and flowers, stop a while and pray
You woulda known her better, but it wasn't in your way
She'd fry a mess o' bacon, cook a pot o' beans
It was her mother's recipe way down in New Orleans
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