I had moved South to a new state, pawned my guitar to get there. Slept on the floor of a friend of a friend. I got a temp job, government work. I know it was weeding but they gave it a glorified title: Foliage Reconciliation.4:30AM a field truck picks up 60 of us, men and woman, the sky is hot and dark, the air thick as damp pepper. A two hour ride to the work place, a blazing sun rises, men strip their shirts, someone sings.....
We enter what appears to be a tunnel, pitch black and sauna temperature. After riding 40 miles I see through the steam of the truck's headlights we're on a road in a dense jungle of vines. Massive, tangled, thick as sleeping snakes some 30 stories high blocking the sun, the stilled arteries of a giant beast. At the campsite we're issued overalls and cutting tools, the blades are rusty and broken. A whistle blast, 7:00 AM, we work by the light of flares hacking at vines, no one talks, I attempt a joke:""I think I'm going to be sickle"". No one laughs. Blades whip the air gouging at bark, weeks will pass, lift, cut, lift, cut, on and on until I seek anything to end the monotony, a root canal or a postal worker's position. An old man covered in sores and continuously wheezing has been there 40 years. ""He's allergic"" a worker says. ""Why doesn't he quit?"" I ask. They stare as if I've lost my mind. ""AND LOSE HIS BENEFITS??!""Two strict ten minute breaks and lunch, mandatory state regulation, everybody says it, every day. The day ends at 6:00, the truck is always late. I ring out my overalls, the air blows sweet against our faces.
After working 4 months I save enough to get my guitar out of hock. The job never gets any easier nor do we make any headway with the vines. What we clear at night has grown back by morning. I work alongside an old woman whoI make friends with and before I quit I ask her why we never make a dent in the vines. ""They grow too fast"", she said, ""I tell them to start with the roots but they're too busy to hear."" Then she bent her head and cut.
Lift, cut, lift, cut, on and on and on......
Hamell on Trial - The Vines Lyrics
Hamell on Trial - The Vines Lyrics
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I had moved South to a new state, pawned my guitar to get there. Slept on the floor of a friend of a friend. I got a temp job, government work. I know it was weeding but they gave it a glorified title: Foliage Reconciliation.4:30AM a field truck picks up 60 of us, men and woman, the sky is hot and dark, the air thick as damp pepper. A two hour ride to the work place, a blazing sun rises, men strip their shirts, someone sings.....
We enter what appears to be a tunnel, pitch black and sauna temperature. After riding 40 miles I see through the steam of the truck's headlights we're on a road in a dense jungle of vines. Massive, tangled, thick as sleeping snakes some 30 stories high blocking the sun, the stilled arteries of a giant beast. At the campsite we're issued overalls and cutting tools, the blades are rusty and broken. A whistle blast, 7:00 AM, we work by the light of flares hacking at vines, no one talks, I attempt a joke:""I think I'm going to be sickle"". No one laughs. Blades whip the air gouging at bark, weeks will pass, lift, cut, lift, cut, on and on until I seek anything to end the monotony, a root canal or a postal worker's position. An old man covered in sores and continuously wheezing has been there 40 years. ""He's allergic"" a worker says. ""Why doesn't he quit?"" I ask. They stare as if I've lost my mind. ""AND LOSE HIS BENEFITS??!""Two strict ten minute breaks and lunch, mandatory state regulation, everybody says it, every day. The day ends at 6:00, the truck is always late. I ring out my overalls, the air blows sweet against our faces.
After working 4 months I save enough to get my guitar out of hock. The job never gets any easier nor do we make any headway with the vines. What we clear at night has grown back by morning. I work alongside an old woman whoI make friends with and before I quit I ask her why we never make a dent in the vines. ""They grow too fast"", she said, ""I tell them to start with the roots but they're too busy to hear."" Then she bent her head and cut.
Lift, cut, lift, cut, on and on and on......
We enter what appears to be a tunnel, pitch black and sauna temperature. After riding 40 miles I see through the steam of the truck's headlights we're on a road in a dense jungle of vines. Massive, tangled, thick as sleeping snakes some 30 stories high blocking the sun, the stilled arteries of a giant beast. At the campsite we're issued overalls and cutting tools, the blades are rusty and broken. A whistle blast, 7:00 AM, we work by the light of flares hacking at vines, no one talks, I attempt a joke:""I think I'm going to be sickle"". No one laughs. Blades whip the air gouging at bark, weeks will pass, lift, cut, lift, cut, on and on until I seek anything to end the monotony, a root canal or a postal worker's position. An old man covered in sores and continuously wheezing has been there 40 years. ""He's allergic"" a worker says. ""Why doesn't he quit?"" I ask. They stare as if I've lost my mind. ""AND LOSE HIS BENEFITS??!""Two strict ten minute breaks and lunch, mandatory state regulation, everybody says it, every day. The day ends at 6:00, the truck is always late. I ring out my overalls, the air blows sweet against our faces.
After working 4 months I save enough to get my guitar out of hock. The job never gets any easier nor do we make any headway with the vines. What we clear at night has grown back by morning. I work alongside an old woman whoI make friends with and before I quit I ask her why we never make a dent in the vines. ""They grow too fast"", she said, ""I tell them to start with the roots but they're too busy to hear."" Then she bent her head and cut.
Lift, cut, lift, cut, on and on and on......
Writer: EDWARD JAMES HAMELL
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management