Drunk at the bottom of the steps,
steps into the Clearwater Christian Church,
and it don't much matter anyhow,
the doors been locked for years,
pulpit and pews
sold at Bartholomew 's Auction House
one Saturday morning.

Drunk at the bottom of the steps,
steps to the Clearwater Christian Church,
and there is some kind of bird nightsinging,
in the trees back behind the building,
where the privies were hid,
and the singing sounds like
Clearwater Christian angels.

Drunk at the bottom of the steps,
steps up to the Clearwater Christian Church,
and I recall sitting besides my Mama,
her in her hat and gloves,
gloves to hide the workworn hands,
and we sat,
and we stood on our feet,
and we folded our hands,
and we prayed for the sick and the dead and
most of all the sinners.

Drunk at the bottom of the steps,
steps up to the Clearwater Christian Church,
and the moon is upon me,
moonlight shining on me and my shrunken soul,
and the angels are singing,
and the doors are locked,
but I still hear those Amens.

Drunk at the bottom of those steps,
the bottom of those steps,
and Mama is in the Churchyard praying,
pale Mama in the Churchyard is praying,
as she looks upon me,
drunk on those steps,
those steps up to the Clearwater Christian Church.