We always loved Uncle John's band,
we'd sing and dance, hand in hand
under the sugar magnolia tree.
Never was there a substantial fee;
"She opens her box of rain,"
uncle John sings with such pain--
"never was she the friend of the devil,
but her lover was at that level,
so she opens her box of rain,
blood of those he had slain.
a touch of gray in hand,
she finds strength through her land."
A way with words, uncle John had always,
even in death, through us, he still plays.