Well there’s ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard There’ll be blood on the scarecrow, blood on the plowīlood on the scarecrow, blood on the plow Sometimes i hear her singing, “Take me to the Promised Land.” Well calling it your job ol’ hoss sure don’t make it rightīut if you want me to I’ll say a prayer for your soul tonightĪnd Grandma’s on the front porch with a Bible in her hand He said John it’s just my job and I hope you understand The crops we grew last summer weren’t enough to pay the loanĬouldn’t buy the seed to plant this spring and the Farmers Bank foreclosedĬalled my old friend Schepman up to auction off the land This land fed a nation, this land made me proudĪnd son I’m just sorry there’s no legacy for you now When I was five I walked the fence while Grandpa held my hand I grew up like my daddy did, my grandpa cleared this land Scarecrow on a wooden cross, blackbird in the barnįour hundred empty acres that used to be my farm (I copied the lyrics off the internet, and the spacing doesn’t look right, but oh well.) Here is a video of “Rain on the Scarecrow,” and below the video are the lyrics. The clarity and plainness of Mellencamp’s lyrics remind me of the simple diction of Bess Streeter Aldrich, Booth Tarkington, and Ruth Suckow, three Midwestern novelists in the early 20th century who wrote about small Midwestern towns and farms. I remember being surprised that a rock band lived in Bloomington, but in retrospect I am surprised that more bands don’t live in Bloomington, one of the most beautiful towns in the U.S. Many years ago, when we lived in Bloomington, his drummer helped us move a desk we bought at a garage sale, and we helped him move a chair. His lovely, rather earnest songs record Midwestern daily life, the history of small towns, and the death of the family farm. It has been a joy to rediscover the songs of John Mellencamp. There’ll be blood on the scarecrow–Mellencamp’s Rain on the Scarecrow When you take away a man’s dignity he can’t work his fields and cows
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