A Million Million

protest folk, folk revival, world music (African traditional percussion)

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V5.5

Verse 1
Come gather round, good people,
By the courthouse in the rain,
I’ll sing about a golden man
Who learned to profit off of pain.

He rode in with a grin of steel,
With a ledger for a heart,
And everywhere his scissors fell,
The hungry broke apart.

Verse 2
They called it cuts, they called it clean,
They called it saving grace,
But there were mothers at the clinic door
With sickness on their face.

There were children needing medicine,
There were elders needing bread,
And every line he scratched away
Left someone cold or dead.

Chorus
Oh, a trillion is a million million,
A thousand billions high,
A mountain made of stolen suns
Stacked up against the sky.

You can count it till your fingers fail,
You can count it till you’re old,
But you’ll never find a human soul
Buried in that gold.

Verse 3
A million is a farmhouse
With a candle in the pane,
A billion is a railroad king
Who bought the wind and rain.

But a trillion is an empire
No working hand can weigh,
A kingdom built from every mouth
That went unfed that day.

Verse 4
He talks of Mars and metal stars,
Of rockets bright and grand,
But what is space to hungry bones
And dust in a poor man’s hand?

What good are ships to heaven
When the earth is left to bleed?
What kind of man sells tomorrow’s dream
And cuts today’s last seed?

Chorus
Oh, a trillion is a million million,
A thousand billions high,
A mountain made of stolen suns
Stacked up against the sky.

You can count it till your fingers fail,
You can count it till you’re old,
But you’ll never find a human soul
Buried in that gold.

Bridge
If mercy had a market price,
He’d short it on the floor.
If kindness was a factory,
He’d lock the factory door.

If death could be a dividend,
He’d smile and call it wise,
Then sell the smoke from funeral lamps
As progress in disguise.

Verse 5
So sing for all the nameless ones
The rich refuse to see,
For every life reduced to math,
For every stolen plea.

Sing it low like thunder,
Sing it plain and strong,
No man should own a million lives
And call the killing wrong.

Final Chorus
Oh, a trillion is a million million,
A thousand billions high,
A mountain made of stolen suns
Stacked up against the sky.

You can buy the moon’s reflection,
You can rent the morning’s glow,
But the graveyard keeps its record
Of the debts the rich men owe.

No, you’ll never find a human soul,
No mercy brave and whole,
In a throne of thousand billions
Where a man has sold his soul.

Outro
So let the fiddle mourn him,
Let the banjo tell it plain:
A man who hoards a million million
Has learned to harvest pain.

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Verse 1 Come gather round, good people, By the courthouse in the rain, I’ll sing about a golden man Who learned to profit off of pain. He rode in with a grin of steel, With a ledger for a heart, And everywhere his scissors fell, The hungry broke apart. Verse 2 They called it cuts, they called it clean, They called it saving grace, But there were mothers at the clinic door With sickness on their face. There were children needing medicine, There were elders needing bread, And every line he scratched away Left someone cold or dead. Chorus Oh, a trillion is a million million, A thousand billions high, A mountain made of stolen suns Stacked up against the sky. You can count it till your fingers fail, You can count it till you’re old, But you’ll never find a human soul Buried in that gold. Verse 3 A million is a farmhouse With a candle in the pane, A billion is a railroad king Who bought the wind and rain. But a trillion is an empire No working hand can weigh, A kingdom built from every mouth That went unfed that day. Verse 4 He talks of Mars and metal stars, Of rockets bright and grand, But what is space to hungry bones And dust in a poor man’s hand? What good are ships to heaven When the earth is left to bleed? What kind of man sells tomorrow’s dream And cuts today’s last seed? Chorus Oh, a trillion is a million million, A thousand billions high, A mountain made of stolen suns Stacked up against the sky. You can count it till your fingers fail, You can count it till you’re old, But you’ll never find a human soul Buried in that gold. Bridge If mercy had a market price, He’d short it on the floor. If kindness was a factory, He’d lock the factory door. If death could be a dividend, He’d smile and call it wise, Then sell the smoke from funeral lamps As progress in disguise. Verse 5 So sing for all the nameless ones The rich refuse to see, For every life reduced to math, For every stolen plea. Sing it low like thunder, Sing it plain and strong, No man should own a million lives And call the killing wrong. Final Chorus Oh, a trillion is a million million, A thousand billions high, A mountain made of stolen suns Stacked up against the sky. You can buy the moon’s reflection, You can rent the morning’s glow, But the graveyard keeps its record Of the debts the rich men owe. No, you’ll never find a human soul, No mercy brave and whole, In a throne of thousand billions Where a man has sold his soul. Outro So let the fiddle mourn him, Let the banjo tell it plain: A man who hoards a million million Has learned to harvest pain.

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