February 27, 2017


Penelope Piano ought to be your name,
Magic on the keyboard is going to be your game;
But pious Papa worries that you might go astray,
And Mama taught you from the crib always to obey;

Preacher Jones says sacrifice is some golden rule,
And makes you play the organ for the brats in Sunday school;
This berg is like a prison where freedom is taboo,
You’re eighteen, Penelope, your life belongs to you;

They treat you like a servant, like you’re some Santa’s elf,
Your serving days are over, Girl, it’s time to serve yourself.
We need a classy cowgirl to perk up our cowboy band,
And we’ll play the kind of music that you can understand;

Play backup to my old guitar, you’re a wizard on the keys,
Our songs ain’t complicated, it’s goin’ to be a breeze;
Let’s hit the road, Penelope, to a whole wide world out there,
Undo that tomboy pigtail, let out that golden hair;

Playing country music fills your soul with song,
If do-gooders try to mug you, they’ll find you’re proud and strong;
Salvation is on the open road, you’ll be what you can be,
The Promised Land, Penelope, is any place you’re free.

Copyright © Jim Douthit 2017

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