Not Worth a Continental

Lyrics

Hall and Sellers' press in Philly town, smelled of wet ink and revolution.
June of 'seventy-five, they were cranking them out, a paper solution.

Ben Franklin drew a sundial, said "Mind Your Business," said "Fugio."
Means "I flee," a little Latin joke nobody knew would be so true.
They gave it to the soldiers, a promise folded in their coats.
For the winter marches and the leaking boats.
Said this paper here would buy their children bread.
A paper shield to hold against the dread.

But a wagon load of money, the General wrote, won't buy a wagon load of flour.
And faith gets thin, hour by worthless hour.
The presses run, but the ink just fades to gray.
Not worth a Continental, you can hear 'em say.
Not worth a Continental at the closing of the day.

Down in New York harbor, on a ship called the Phoenix, I heard tell.
James Rivington the printer ran a counterfeiter's little hell.
The Redcoats fought with muskets, and they fought with paper lies.
Looked the same to weary merchants, to their tired, squinting eyes.
Forty dollars paper for one dollar made of stone.
The debt just grew, a marrow in the bone.

And a wagon load of money, the General wrote, won't buy a wagon load of flour.
And faith gets thin, hour by worthless hour.
The presses run, but the ink just fades to gray.
Not worth a Continental, you can hear 'em say.
Not worth a Continental at the closing of the day.

Saw a man in Richmond, paid a million for a suit of clothes.
Came back from the battle, where the paper river flows.
Pockets full of nothing, promises turned to dust.
Some they papered up their walls with it, a final, faded trust.
Some just threw it in the fire, watched the sundial burn away.
Nothing left to spend and nothing left to say.

The Virginia ledgers marked it down, a thousand to just one.
The war was over, but the paper war was done.
Not worth a Continental.