[Verse 1] The ink is drying faster in the heat of the lamp, We’re trading in the open fields for the city and the camp. The carbon in the chimney is the dust upon the page, A quiet kind of currency for a different kind of age. The typewriter is clattering, a rigid sort of sound, Mapping out the logic that the steel has finally found. The ledger is a labyrinth of columns and of grids, Keeping track of everything the new machine forbids. We’re tethered by the current and we’re moving by the line, Tracing out the future in a straight and sharp design. [Chorus] The Howell keeps the ledger, the Howey keeps the gear, While the pulse of the telegraph is humming in our ear. We’re clocking every minute, we’re counting every cent, Wondering where the spirit of the open pasture went. The ink and the acre, the iron and the steam, Are fossilized in records of a very different dream. We’re the cogs in the system, we’re the wires in the wall, Answering the mandate of the industrial call. [Verse 2] The Howell is a clerk now, with ink upon his sleeve, Recording all the miracles that no one will believe. The Howey is a foreman, with a whistle and a watch, Working in the shipyard and the bustling factory notch. We’ve learned to speak in numbers, we’ve learned to speak in code, Living in the shadow of the train-track and the road. The ledger is a mountain that we’re climbing every day, To keep the cold indifference of the city far away. The record is the ruler, the record is the law, A working relationship without any flaw. [Chorus] The Howell keeps the ledger, the Howey keeps the gear, While the pulse of the telegraph is humming in our ear. We’re clocking every minute, we’re counting every cent, Wondering where the spirit of the open pasture went. The ink and the acre, the iron and the steam, Are fossilized in records of a very different dream. We’re the cogs in the system, we’re the wires in the wall, Answering the mandate of the industrial call. [Bridge] The city is a furnace, the city is a hive, It’s the only way that any of us know how to survive. The Howell dreams of meadows, the Howey dreams of speed, But we’re tied to the requirements of the capitalist need. We are the structure of the age that we have built, With a little bit of glory and a little bit of guilt. The ledger is the anchor, the ledger is the gate, To all the complex workings of the modern twist of fate. The nineteenth song is a ticking of the clock, As we stand beneath the weight of the city-battered block. [Verse 3] The evening is a glow of the incandescent light, Stretching out the limits of the long and crowded night. The Howell is finished, the quill is put away, Ready for the routine of the following day. The Howey is restless, the city is too loud, Lost in the movement of the rushing, frantic crowd. We’ve come a long way from the quiet of the hill, With the iron and the ledger and the factory’s loud shrill. The carbon is the shadow of the history we’ve made, In the light of the future that will never start to fade. [Chorus] The Howell keeps the ledger, the Howey keeps the gear, While the pulse of the telegraph is humming in our ear. We’re clocking every minute, we’re counting every cent, Wondering where the spirit of the open pasture went. The ink and the acre, the iron and the steam, Are fossilized in records of a very different dream. We’re the cogs in the system, we’re the wires in the wall, Answering the mandate of the industrial call. [Outro] The typewriter is silenced, the office is dark, The furnace is fading to a cold, tiny spark. The Howell is record, and the Howey is code, Carrying the weight of the new-fashioned load. The nineteenth part is written in the grit, As we adjust to the harness that we have to fit.
