Lyrics
Hands off the chisel now, let the shadow prove the line
Yeah, this ain't my work no more, baby, this is yours and mine
This ain't my blood in the grain, this ain't my sweat on the pine
This ain't my work no more, baby, this is yours and mine
[Verse 1]
Left the Kanna plane sitting on a fresh curl of cypress wood
It's four-fifteen on a Tuesday in my corner of the neighborhood
The single bulb is buzzing, throwing gold on all the dust
Got a graveyard of bad angles, every joint a lesson in rust
Been eight years on this single chair, trying to make the pieces fit
Seen the seasons change on the condensation of the window slit
Tonight the grain is talking back, a language I can almost speak
Feel the answer in my tendons, been waiting for it all damn week
[Pre-Chorus]
And I hold my breath, feel the whole city go quiet
Just the hum of the ballast and the start of a holy riot
One tap of the mallet, could be masterpiece or firewood
Swear to god, I'd burn the whole shop down if I could
[Chorus]
Hands off the chisel now, let the shadow prove the line
Yeah, this ain't my work no more, baby, this is yours and mine
This ain't my blood in the grain, this ain't my sweat on the pine
This ain't my work no more, baby, this is yours and mine
[Verse 2]
Old man Guidry told me once, spitting snoose into a can
"You don't make the shape, son, you just free it with your hand"
Saw the truth of it this morning in the bottom of a coffee cup
This whole damn thing was waiting here, I just had to show up
I'm tracing every scar I put on it, every slip and violent mark
A constellation of my failures, glowing softly in the dark
Felt the temperature drop a degree, that's the signal for the dawn
The click of the first streetcar pulling current 'til it's gone
[Pre-Chorus]
And I hold my breath, feel the whole city go quiet
Just the hum of the ballast and the start of a holy riot
One tap of the mallet, could be masterpiece or firewood
Swear to god, I'd burn the whole block down if I could
[Chorus]
Hands off the chisel now, let the shadow prove the line
Yeah, this ain't my work no more, baby, this is yours and mine
This ain't my blood in the grain, this ain't my sweat on the pine
This ain't my work no more, baby, this is yours and mine
[Outro]
Yeah. One clean line.
Just... let it be.
About Mac Hollow
Mac Hollow was raised in the rhythms of New Orleans' service industry. He still bartends four nights a week in a Bywater dive, writing lyrics on cocktail napkins during lulls and heading home to a shotgun house in the 7th Ward. His songs are born in the quiet hours after his shift, composed on a beat-up Wurlitzer piano and recorded before the sun comes up. This is the sound of a city after last…
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FAQ
Who is Mac Hollow?
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