[Intro: clawhammer banjo, soft boot stomp] Two drops on the race, one wipe with the rag She said a Singer stays honest if you never let it drag [Hook: sung female alto] Sewing machine oil, keep the needle true Every hem she ever finished still smells a little like you Sewing machine oil, amber in the light I turn the wheel the way you taught me through the quiet of the night [Verse 1] Funeral flowers in the truck bed and a casserole on the seat I unlocked her back room where the treadle met my feet Black Singer from the sixties with a chip on the arm Spools in a biscuit tin arranged by a calm She oiled it every Sunday after church and before stew Two drops, wipe the race, listen for the hum she knew I used to sit and turn the wheel while she pinned a sleeve She said hurry makes a crooked seam, and crooked seams leave Now the room is just a room with her glasses on the sill And a dress form in the corner wearing patience and goodwill Half a wedding bodice basted with a chalk line down the side My name on a scrap of muslin that she pinned with quiet pride [Hook: sung female alto] Sewing machine oil, keep the needle true Every hem she ever finished still smells a little like you Sewing machine oil, amber in the light I turn the wheel the way you taught me through the quiet of the night [Verse 2] Mama said sell the machine, we need the closet space I said Grandma started something I can still see in her face Drove to the hardware for the little yellow can Same brand she kept forever like a lantern in a pan First Sunday alone I oiled it wrong and the stitch skipped twice I heard her in my head say slow child, measure thrice Wiped it clean and started over till the hum came round Like a hymn through the floorboards of a long familiar ground I basted through the evening with the radio down low And the dress form stopped looking like a stranger in the glow [Double-Time Switch: stacked, no commas] Biscuit tin spools in a circle by color and the dress form wearing quiet patience like a winter overcoat she never got to put on Funeral flowers in the truck bed still wilting and the casserole getting colder but the Singer getting warmer when the morning is gone Two drops on the race and a rag on the table and the pedal finds my foot like a regular handshake from a woman who always stayed Hardware yellow can and the humming in the floorboards and the chalk line on the muslin with my given name that she patiently made ready [Half Hook: sung female alto, short] Sewing machine oil, keep the needle true I turn the wheel the way you taught me through the quiet of the night [Chopper Burst: triplet bounce, flow switch] Oil on the race then a wipe on the shuttle then a thread through the needle like a river I am studying how to carefully cross Pin every gather and baste every border and press every seam like the minutes are fabric and grieving is soft evergreen moss Pedal in a pattern and breathe in a pattern and finish the bodice she started when the winter cut bitterly sharp as a loss Amber in the bottle and her glasses on the windowsill watching me inherit the ritual of careful love and carry every cost [Breakdown: banjo only, half-time] Drop if you mean it (drop) Wipe if you stay (wipe) Turn the wheel steady The way she showed the way [Verse 3] Wedding day the dress fit like a sentence she began Mama cried in the kitchen with a pin still in her hand I kept the yellow can beside the flowers and the rings Two drops before I left the house, the oldest of my things Now when my own girl asks me why the machine smells sweet I say some love is maintenance you repeat and repeat Not loud, not fancy, just a habit that refuses to spoil A black Singer, a quiet room, and sewing machine oil [Final Hook: sung female alto] Sewing machine oil, keep the needle true Every hem she ever finished still smells a little like you Sewing machine oil, amber in the light I turn the wheel the way you taught me through the quiet of the night [Outro: clawhammer fade, soft stomp] Two drops on the race, one wipe with the rag A Singer stays honest if you never let it drag
