John Dreck's body's moldrin in the cornfield
picking up the radio and feedin all the corn
corn's growin crooked bendin over reekin
feedin up the people when they buy it at the store
John Dreck's body's stinkin like a tree
fragments of his memory seeping upward from his grave
Callin for the friendly hopin for a patron
Fillin up the orchards with remembrance of his pain
and the sun does glow and the stalks do grow and the green heat radiates all season
and John Dreck strains in the summer rains but lately lacks the mind to ask the reason
John Dreck's body's rottin in a cornfield
Struggling with the vantage point afforded by the corn
Years passin slowly Situation hazy
Down there in the darkness where it's hard to know the score
Poor John Dreck he never gets a visitor
Lonely grave is lonely it's machines that tend the corn
Callin to the faithful hopin for a neighbor
A stimulating lady who could help and keep him warm