Lewis Grizzard: The Porch Columnist

Lyrics

[Intro]
This was your chair.
Right here on the porch in Druid Hills.
Close enough to smell the jasmine from Virginia Highland.

[Verse 1]
There was a glass of sweet tea, sweating on the wood.
An old Royal typewriter, waiting for the words.
You just sat and watched.
You watched the mailman flinch when a dog named Cat started barking.
You watched the afternoon light filter through the oaks on St. Charles.
You listened to the rhythm of a neighborhood breathing.

[Chorus]
You took the six o'clock wave from a passing car,
the gossip carried on a humid breeze,
and you hammered it into truth on The Atlanta Constitution's pages.
You made this little corner of the world make sense to everyone.
You gave our front porch a voice.

[Verse 2]
Nineteen seventy-seven.
You came back home.
And found your stories in the simple things.
A kid on a bike, a slammed screen door.
The precise meaning of 'Bless your heart.'
You knew every shade of it.
You weren't writing about the South.
You were just writing about Tuesday afternoon.
And Tuesday afternoon happened to be here.

[Chorus]
You took the six o'clock wave from a passing car,
the gossip carried on a humid breeze,
and you hammered it into truth on The Atlanta Constitution's pages.
You made this little corner of the world make sense to everyone.
You gave our front porch a voice.

[Bridge]
Then came March of '94.
The typewriter went silent.
The ice in the glass melted for good.
But the porch still remembers.
It holds the shape of your observations.
The echo of a chuckle.
The ghost of a deadline.

[Outro]
Someone's grilling down the street.
A dog is barking.
Just another Tuesday.
And you're still here, listening.