SIX FEET SHORT OF HEAVEN

J.J.Scully

Southern-gothic, Appalachian folk-soul, blues-punk

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[VERSE 1]
Thirty years I've worked this hillside,
Shovel, level, clay and stone,
Learned the names upon the markers,
Learned which roots won't leave 'em alone.
First I knew the Sunday hymns,
Black coats standing two by two,
Then somebody prayed in words
I couldn't understand—but knew.
Woman kissed her fingers softly,
Touched the earth and touched her heart.
Didn't know what prayer she'd given.
Knew exactly what it was.
[CHORUS]
I'm six feet short of heaven,
That's as close as I have been,
Where every kind of goodbye
Comes through the same old gate again.
You can call your God by any name,
Or never call at all—
I've dug beneath a thousand lives
And never found a stranger
In the fall.
[VERSE 2]
I've heard fiddles, bells and silence,
Seen bright colors, widow's black,
Watched a family bring supper,
Watched another never look back.
Some leave flowers, some leave whiskey,
Some leave stones upon the name,
Some stand twenty deep and singing,
Some come all alone in rain.
Used to notice what was different.
Funny what the years can do.
Now I mostly see the shaking hand
That doesn't want to let go of you.
[CHORUS]
I'm six feet short of heaven,
Working underneath the sky,
Where a hundred different customs
Teach a hundred ways to cry.
You can face the east or face the west,
Have preacher, priest or none—
The dirt has never asked me once
Where anybody came from.
[BRIDGE — almost spoken]
Young fellow asked me once,
"Don't all these different people confuse you?"
I said—
Son, I've seen people whisper,
I've seen people wail.
I've seen people dance behind a coffin
And people too broken to follow the trail.
Different ain't the part
that stays with you.
It's who reaches for whose hand.
[FINAL CHORUS]
I'm six feet short of heaven,
And I've learned enough down here:
There are more ways to bury someone
Than there are reasons we should fear.
Different words above the grave,
Different songs beneath the sun—
But every shovel weighs the same
When somebody's someone
Is gone.
[OUTRO — shovel enters earth, xylophone softly answers]
Thirty years upon this hillside...
Still haven't buried
a stranger.

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[VERSE 1] Thirty years I've worked this hillside, Shovel, level, clay and stone, Learned the names upon the markers, Learned which roots won't leave 'em alone. First I knew the Sunday hymns, Black coats standing two by two, Then somebody prayed in words I couldn't understand—but knew. Woman kissed her fingers softly, Touched the earth and touched her heart. Didn't know what prayer she'd given. Knew exactly what it was. [CHORUS] I'm six feet short of heaven, That's as close as I have been, Where every kind of goodbye Comes through the same old gate again. You can call your God by any name, Or never call at all— I've dug beneath a thousand lives And never found a stranger In the fall. [VERSE 2] I've heard fiddles, bells and silence, Seen bright colors, widow's black, Watched a family bring supper, Watched another never look back. Some leave flowers, some leave whiskey, Some leave stones upon the name, Some stand twenty deep and singing, Some come all alone in rain. Used to notice what was different. Funny what the years can do. Now I mostly see the shaking hand That doesn't want to let go of you. [CHORUS] I'm six feet short of heaven, Working underneath the sky, Where a hundred different customs Teach a hundred ways to cry. You can face the east or face the west, Have preacher, priest or none— The dirt has never asked me once Where anybody came from. [BRIDGE — almost spoken] Young fellow asked me once, "Don't all these different people confuse you?" I said— Son, I've seen people whisper, I've seen people wail. I've seen people dance behind a coffin And people too broken to follow the trail. Different ain't the part that stays with you. It's who reaches for whose hand. [FINAL CHORUS] I'm six feet short of heaven, And I've learned enough down here: There are more ways to bury someone Than there are reasons we should fear. Different words above the grave, Different songs beneath the sun— But every shovel weighs the same When somebody's someone Is gone. [OUTRO — shovel enters earth, xylophone softly answers] Thirty years upon this hillside... Still haven't buried a stranger.

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