JONATHA'S NOTE:
Funny how a propos this one still is today, even though
Woody wrote the lyric in 1939. We're still traipsing
around the world trying to tell everyone else how to
run their countries, and we can't even take care of our
own. There's also a pared down version of this song on
the album "Songs for Tibet" – to benefit the Art of
Peace Foundation.
LYRICS:
On the curb of a city pavement, by the ash and garbage
cans.
In the stench of rolling thunder of motor trucks and
vans,
There sits a little lady with brave but troubled eyes,
And in her arms a baby that cries and cries and cries.
She cannot be more than three, but the years go fast in
the slums,
And hard on the pangs of winter's cold, the pitiless
summer comes.
The wails of sickly children she knows, she
understands,
The pangs of puny bodies, the clutch of small hot
hands.
The deadly blaze of August that turns men faint and
mad,
She quiets the peevish urchins by telling of dreams she
had.
Of heaven with its marble stairs, and ice and singing
fans.
And God in white, so friendly there, just like the drug
store man.
On the curb of a city pavement by the ash and garbage
cans.
In the stench of rolling thunder of motor trucks and
vans,
There sits a little lady with brave but troubled eyes,
And in her arms a baby that cries and cries and cries.
So when you're giving millions to Belgian Pole, and
Serb,
Remember my beautiful lady, MADONNA ON THE CURB.
