Palmetto rose in the AC vent. Cross-stitch pillow where the headrest went.
Said his cab was his orneriest friend.
Left hand jumping the trees in the wind.
Thought he had the red lights memorized, glass in the gravel like stars in the sky.
In that slow-motion minute between living and dead,
He looked in my eyes and he told me, he said:
It's war that I wage to get up every day.
It's a fiberglass boat, it's azaleas in May.
It's the women I love and the law that I hate.
But Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Palmetto rose in the sidewalk mud, dirty white stem and a big green bud.
Catch then coming out of a King street store, with some bullshit story about the Civil War.
Now, you can belive what you want to believe, but there ain't no making up a basket weave.
Everybody in the tri-county knows, who makes the best Palmetto rose.
It's war that we wage to get up every day.
It's a basket of sweetgrass, a wedding bouquet.
It's the ladies I love and the law that I hate.
But Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Out on Sullivan's island, they're swimming.
On the beech where the big boats rolled in,
With the earliest slaves and their children, our first American kin.
Here on King street, we're selling our roses,
Two for a five-dollar bill.
At night after everything closes,
I follow my own free will,
And I take in my fill.
I take in my fill.
=======================================================
So we were hardly surprised when,
listening to the preview stream of Isbell's
we caught all kinds of Holy City references
in the blues-rock song "Palmetto Rose."
The t**le, of course, is a reference to the woven creations that sidewalk vendors hawk to couples downtown.
The refrain, "Lord let me die in the Iodine State," is a reference to one of South Carolina's
the product of a 1920s agricultural marketing
campaign touting elevated levels of iodine in the state's produce.
Thematically, "Palmetto Rose" is yet another ode
to the working class by Isbell, who's been writing in that wheelhouse since his stint with the Drive-By Truckers.
He sings: "Here on King Street we're selling our roses / Two for a five-dollar bill / And tonight after everything closes / I'll follow my own free will."
And then there's this half of a verse:
"Catch you comin' out of a King Street store / Bullshit story 'bout the Civil War / You can believe what you wanna believe / But there ain't no makin' up a basket weave / Everybody in the tri-county knows / Who makes the best palmetto rose."
Said his cab was his orneriest friend.
Left hand jumping the trees in the wind.
Thought he had the red lights memorized, glass in the gravel like stars in the sky.
In that slow-motion minute between living and dead,
He looked in my eyes and he told me, he said:
It's war that I wage to get up every day.
It's a fiberglass boat, it's azaleas in May.
It's the women I love and the law that I hate.
But Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Palmetto rose in the sidewalk mud, dirty white stem and a big green bud.
Catch then coming out of a King street store, with some bullshit story about the Civil War.
Now, you can belive what you want to believe, but there ain't no making up a basket weave.
Everybody in the tri-county knows, who makes the best Palmetto rose.
It's war that we wage to get up every day.
It's a basket of sweetgrass, a wedding bouquet.
It's the ladies I love and the law that I hate.
But Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Lord, let me die in the Iodine State.
Out on Sullivan's island, they're swimming.
On the beech where the big boats rolled in,
With the earliest slaves and their children, our first American kin.
Here on King street, we're selling our roses,
Two for a five-dollar bill.
At night after everything closes,
I follow my own free will,
And I take in my fill.
I take in my fill.
=======================================================
So we were hardly surprised when,
listening to the preview stream of Isbell's
we caught all kinds of Holy City references
in the blues-rock song "Palmetto Rose."
The t**le, of course, is a reference to the woven creations that sidewalk vendors hawk to couples downtown.
The refrain, "Lord let me die in the Iodine State," is a reference to one of South Carolina's
the product of a 1920s agricultural marketing
campaign touting elevated levels of iodine in the state's produce.
Thematically, "Palmetto Rose" is yet another ode
to the working class by Isbell, who's been writing in that wheelhouse since his stint with the Drive-By Truckers.
He sings: "Here on King Street we're selling our roses / Two for a five-dollar bill / And tonight after everything closes / I'll follow my own free will."
And then there's this half of a verse:
"Catch you comin' out of a King Street store / Bullshit story 'bout the Civil War / You can believe what you wanna believe / But there ain't no makin' up a basket weave / Everybody in the tri-county knows / Who makes the best palmetto rose."