Bruised Orange

John PrineJohn Prine 

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John Prine

John Prine (born October 10, 1946, in Maywood, Illinois) is an American country/folk singer-songwriter. He has been active as a composer, recording artist and live performer since the early 1970s. more »

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My heart's in the ice house, come hill or come valley

Like a long ago Sunday when I walked through the alley

On a cold winter's morning to a church house

Just to shovel some snow



I heard sirens on the train track howl naked gettin' nuder

An altar boy's been hit by a local commuter

Just from walking with his back turned

To the train that was coming so slow



You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder

Throw your hands in the air, say what does it matter?

But it don't do no good to get angry so help me, I know



For a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bitter

You become your own prisoner as you watch yourself sit there

Wrapped up in a trap of your very own chain of sorrow



I've been brought down to zero, pulled out and put back there

I sat on a park bench, kissed the girl with the black hair

And my head shouted down to my heart

"You better look out below"



Hey, it ain't such a long drop, don't stammer don't stutter

From the diamonds in the sidewalk to the dirt in the gutter

And you carry those bruises to remind you wherever you go



You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder

Throw your hands in the air, say what does it matter?

But it don't do no good to get angry so help me, I know



For a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bitter

You become your own prisoner as you watch yourself sit there

Wrapped up in a trap of your very own chain of sorrow



My heart's in the ice house, come hill or come valley

Like a long ago Sunday when I walked through the alley

On a cold winter's morning to a church house

Just to shovel some snow



I heard sirens on the train track howl naked gettin' nuder

An altar boy's been hit by a local commuter

Just from walking with his back turned

To the train that was coming so slow



You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder

Throw your hands in the air, say what does it matter?

But it don't do no good to get angry so help me, I know



For a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bitter

You become your own prisoner as you watch yourself sit there

Wrapped up in a trap of your very own chain of sorrow

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