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The Hammers We Find

Words and Music by Ben Scott © 2010

She was born with a fiddle on her chin
The imprint there for all to see
Little calloused fingers and she gave herself
To the whisper of horsehair on steel

While the papers complained of a retail lull
Each roll and cut her hands knew well
Her memories were like musical lines
And she walked the streets in 4/4 time

Is it all for nothing?
Is it all at stake?
What defines a person
but the hammers we find and the ground we break?

At home on feverish summers days
She played to wash her doubts away
And her little calloused fingers washed dishes each night
Cause all musicians are amateurs these days


Is it a culture of fear, is it a housing boom
Is it tax relief or a silver spoon
Is it a brave new world or is it tired and old
Is it what we are or what we're told

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