nothing is left to break, Daddy kicks his way through the screen
on our back door. Mother lets me go; we run across the room.
What we see is Daddy, wearing only a pair of gray trousers and
black suspenders, his hairy back flexing, huffing his way down
the road to town. He babbles loudly and swats the empty air.
Mother finally speaks. "Oh Lord," she says. We follow
him, keeping our distance and ducking from the road every time
he halts or turns. There’s my hand in Mother’s. I ask her what's
happening, what is wrong with him, but she only squeezes harder
and says, "Quiet now, Right. Your
mama's thinking." She thinks and remains silent the
entire time, all the way into town.
Nodd, Arkansas, in 1938 still looks like the set of a Hollywood western
— dirt streets, nearly every building built of wood, horse troughs
and hitching posts still on every block. Only the presence of
a couple primitive automobiles and pickup trucks breaks the illusion.
Daddy utters no signs of recognition to the few passersby, though
most are members of his flock. They stare at him as he lumbers
past, shirtless, shoeless, unwashed. The few who attempt approach
are met with silence or a noncommittal grunt. It isn't more than
a few minutes before shopkeepers and old ladies are gawking as
if the Ringling Brothers have invaded. They whisper and avert
their eyes and follow him along Main Street. Daddy stops and
enters a building. It's Haney's Honey Hole, Nodd’s
only saloon. Though liquor is still considered the bane of mankind
by most Noddites, our county didn't
go dry after the repeal five years before — one of the few in
Northwest Arkansas. There is a large, filthy picture window at
the front of the building; the crowd of twenty-five or so doesn't
even have to jostle for a good look.
Haney's, Daddy pays with donation money for two jugs of whiskey.
I barely recognize him and feel a chill rise between my shoulder
blades when I study his dead dark eyes. His face twists itself
into a mask of self-loathing, his brows furrowed and cheeks hollow.
I hear old Jasper Link say, "I knew he wadn't much of a preacher." To this my mother replies
(with some juicy gossip), "Get home to your Emma, Jasper.
Might be somebody telling her all about May Hart this very minute."
Several folks chuckle and start whispering again. Jasper huffs
in embarrassment, stutters a curse of some vintage and hurries
there’s Duncan Haney, the fat, pitted sponge of a proprietor.
He’s serving up the liquor and laughing. For years — before, during,
and after Prohibition — my daddy and
mother battled with Lloyd Haney, the Sheriff of Nodd and Duncan's brother, over the saloon. Mother, of course,
wanted to rid the town of evil drink, a thing all righteous Christians
want though Christ himself drank and even worked miracles to provide
wine to the masses. Daddy, I think, went along with her because
he was supposed to do things like that, though most would recount
that his heart never seemed true to the job.
today he’s Duncan Haney's first and only customer. Daddy pours
a four-finger glass of whiskey, looks to the window, lifts his
glass and toasts the crowd. He drains the glass as if it’s full
of water and Mother sinks to the sidewalk, pulls me to her and
cries with frightening abandon, her hysterics unnerving me more
than Daddy's display. "Giv’em
some air," someone is saying. "Let’em breathe." Mother holds
me between her knees with my back to her face. I feel her body
jerking behind me as if it's fighting off all the sadness in the
world. Again, someone bends to offer service but Mother just
thanks him through her tears and waves him away.
ten o'clock the crowd begins to thin, some bored, some back to
their chores or jobs. No one has yet gone into Haney's to talk
to Daddy and the fight everyone thinks imminent has yet to materialize.
Mother tells me months later she saw money pass hands every fifteen
minutes between Mayor Tommy Rue and a beaming, cocky Sheriff Lloyd
Haney himself. "They's
betting," she said, "on how long it'd take your daddy
to kill Duncan Haney." But much to everyone's chagrin, Duncan
and Daddy seem to be hitting it off, passing the day as if old
friends. Haney plants his girth on a stool next to Daddy and
is having a high old time, his flabby arms gesturing wildly, spittle
flying from his lips. Daddy nods and laughs and pours more whiskey.
By early afternoon, even the Mayor and Sheriff Lloyd yawn and
move on about their business. Mother has composed herself enough
to have passed through sadness and entered into viperous anger.
rises stiff from the wooden sidewalk
and brushes her frock with her hands. "Don't you move,"
she says to me. She pushes her way through the couple of onlookers
still left and marches inside Haney's. Duncan Haney, his bulk
roused from Daddy's table, blocks her entrance. I, of course,
creep to the door so I can hear. Duncan Haney is blinking his
soggy red eyes and holding up his hands. To me he looks like
a gigantic baby in search of a cow-sized teat.
Mary, you know we don't allow no women in here."
places her hands on her hips and rises on her toes to get closer
to his face. "I don't care much what you do and don't allow,
Duncan Haney. That there's my husband and if you don't move some,
I guess I'll have to move you myself." She taps her right
foot a few times as she does when impatient with me. Haney shrugs
his side of beef shoulders and steps aside. Daddy doesn't blink.
He sits there and stares at the short jugs of liquor on the table.
Mother snaps up one of those jugs and hurls it to the floor.
It explodes and splashes spots of whiskey up onto her frock.
Daddy looks up at her, blinks a few times, and smiles like he's
just recognized a long-lost friend. Duncan Haney waddles off
behind the bar.
don't know what's wrong with you, Harley” Mother says. “And right
now I don't care. All I want is for you to come home with me
and Right, cause we going home and we ain't
coming back. If you ain't home by tomorrow,
we'll be heading down to Heber Springs. My Cousin Leona'll
be glad to have us. It's up to you. We'll be waiting."
Head up high, she walks back to the door. Without even looking down she snags my shirt
and pulls me hard all the way back home, my questions and complain'ts
ignored yet again.
It's night and we're all in our nightshirts. I'm climbing onto their
lumpy tick mattress to listen to Daddy's stories — Bible stories about sinners who became glorious men of God or
holy warriors who died slaughtering heathens in the loving name
of Jesus. I’m stretching out between them, my body siphoning
warmth from theirs, my head nearly buried beneath pillows. I’m
imagining myself the hero of each and every tale and I'm falling
asleep to his voice, not because of boredom but because of the
soothing music in his cadences.
it’s October, 1939. We've been collecting orange and yellow leaves
from a nearby stand of maples and are sitting on our tiny, sagging
porch to watch the sunset and talk. By the time the full moon
shines bright enough to cast shadows, our conversation turns to
family history — wild tentmeetings my parents and grandparents presided over in
the past. Daddy squats as he talks, his massive shoulders hunched,
moonlight behind him raising a glow from
his body. Mother is sitting on the porch floor with me, our legs
"...yessir, I was some kind of preacher in them days," he
is saying. "ain't that right, Mary?" Mother reaches out to
squeeze his hand.
right, Right. Your Daddy could preach a meeting that would make
your hair stand on end, your eyes fill with tears, and your heart
sing like a bird — all at once.
You should’ve seen your Daddy, specially
the first time my Daddy let him run the show. It was one of our
biggest meetings ever, down on the east bank of Franklin River.
Over three hundred people was there and your Daddy baptized half
of them hisself, spent about three hours
in that water."
the water cold?”
much," Mother answers. "It was a beautiful day. Not
too cold, not too windy, just right. You know them kind of days — everything
on earth seems good, righteous, filled with life. The river even
sparkled like a green silk ribbon."
hindend did catch a chill, though," Daddy says and winks.
We’re all laughing.
Harley," Mother says. "Let me tell this." Daddy
straightens out his legs and sits on the floor with us.
Everbody in that crowd was struck.
I recall one woman in particlar. She was a skinny old thing with about a half-dozen
young'uns, some hanging off her neck
and some on her arms and knees. Your Daddy thundered out scripture
and her eyes started flickering, her mouth started smiling, and
her whole body, with all them kids hanging
on her, straightened up and was strong. She looked like she could’ve
lifted a thousand pounds of kids. It was just that kind of day
is rocking back and resting on his elbows. "Sometimes, Right,"
he says, "you look at a crowd of folks and see nothing but
heads. But other times you see just one thing — the spirit
of Jesus. Their bodies don't matter no more. What you see then
is Jesus Christ, the spirit of Jesus Christ in man. And they
see it in a preacher too, don't you doubt it."
adds, "It was your grandaddy they
come to see, but your Daddy sure stole the show. He got hisself up and started in like he was the only preacher left
on earth. He shook and rolled on the ground, pounded his fists
aginst his head..." She leans
over and whispers in my ear. "Looked like the picture of
Moses to me. Like a young strapping Moses. Only
hears her. "You didn't know you had ole Moses for a Daddy,
did you boy?"
ain't kidding now, " says Mother.
"He did conjure visions of Moses that day. Or
at least John Baptist. The crowd heaved and tossed, women
was crying, and men was on their knees in shame for their
sins. Even my Daddy and Mama was fit
to be tied." She pauses, thinking to herself. "That's
when I knew I'd have your Daddy for a husband, Right. He was
the most beautiful and righteous man on earth that day."
She wipes at her eyes, her expression suddenly comic. "...But
the corker came at the end."
when the folks was wore out and ready
to bust from rapture, your Daddy got aholt
of a hammer and some eightpenny nails left from building the platform." Mother
is standing and raising both arms above her head. "He held
them up so the folks could get a good look, closed his eyes and
whispered a prayer, then opened his eyes and slowly, yelling REDEMPTION!
with each stroke of the hammer, nailed
his own left hand right to that wooden stand." She mimics
hammering her left hand to the side of the house. "Right
to it!" she screeches. "The blood ran off the stand
and people was pushing to get a closer look — for a minute
I thought the whole riverbank'd just
explode. Then your Daddy stopped hammering, gazed out at them
people and smiled the most angelic, most calm smile anybody'd
ever seen on a man's face.
a silence. A silence like you hear in the woods at night after
something big’s been kilt. It lasted
a few long breaths, and then a man, a tall bearded man, started
shaking and screaming the tongue. Then other folks started in.
And more. Pretty soon everbody
was shaking and jigging and screaming — I mean screaming,
like every little piece of evil in them was being tore
out by the root." Mother's chest swole
at the memory. "They let loose like that till they
had nothing left. Dozens just dropped where they stood. I know,
I done it too. The riverbank looked like a battlefield when your
Daddy finally passed out — men and women
and babies stretched out everywhere, twitching like fish. And
your Daddy out cold with one hand still nailed to that stand."
She dabs at the sweat running down her temples. "My, my,
Right. There won't never be another
preacher like your Daddy. Never."
Daddy sits up straight, holds up his open left hand (which still
bore a small dot of a scar in its palm) and says, "Unless,
acourse, we make Right a preacher."
am falling asleep to the low murmurings of Daddy and Mother deciding
the new course of my life and theirs. Mother laughed at the idea
of my becoming a child preacher, but Daddy said she should hear
him out. There I am being tucked into bed without a round of
stories as they talk well into the night.
next morning Daddy picks me up and sets me on his knees. He stares
into my eyes as if he's looking for something.
see the mark in you, boy. The mark of Baby Jesus Crucified."
cleans the table and says nothing. Daddy sticks out his right
thumb and presses it to my forehead, hard, like he's branding
his thumbprint on my skin. He squeezes my head between his mighty
hands and digs in until I cry. For the first time since his drunken
spell, I'm afraid of him. Yet as soon as I began to whimper,
he puts me down and kisses the spot on my forehead.
give marks too, Right. I just give you mine."
decided I would learn the basics of preaching in the same way
he had — by doing it
in front of living, breathing sinners. In preparation he ordered
me to memorize verses from the Bible through sheer word-by-word
repetition. The first passage I could recite all the way through
was Revelations 19:11 — "And out
of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that
with it He should smite the nations: and He shall rule them with
a rod of iron: and He treadeth the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of almighty
God." Catchy, isn't it? Daddy had me yell it as loud as
I could, while Mother stood by sighing and rolling her eyes.
Daddy taught me to point my right hand at the folks with an "accusing
finger" on key words like mouth, sword, and smite, my left
hand above my head, small fist clenched.
early 1940, I was preaching regularly to the townsfolk of Nodd.
morning we'd haul buckets of cold water from the well, heat it
over a fire in grandaddy’s old baptizing cauldron, scrub ourselves immaculate,
and dressed in our least threadbare clothes, we'd march into the
town square like we owned it, placing a wooden apple crate right
in front of the statue of Luther Canfield.
was the most famous man Nodd ever produced
at that time. Canfield had been a Major General in Longstreet’s
First Corps and was one of the few men of Nodd
who reached rank or were slain in battle. The story goes that
he assumed command of Hood’s Alabama Brigade when Hood was wounded
at Little Round Top, but was dropped himself
as he bravely led a charge. Modern historians, on the other hand,
say he was drunk and alone rode his horse directly into opposing
fire while waving his bottle of hooch and yelling obscenities
concerning the mother of Abraham Lincoln. Whatever the truth,
Luther Canfield is a deity in Nodd.
His birthday, the fourteenth of June, is celebrated in nearly
the same way as Christmas: presents are exchanged, feuds are halted,
and mass goodwill prevails. I recall Daddy pointing to Canfield's
ugly, twisted stone face and saying, "Right, one day I'll
make you as famous as ole Luther himself."
I am, up on that crate and yelling, "STOP all ye
SINNERS and LISTEN!!" Right from the start no one dares
walk past. Daddy is correct about that. "Anybody who don't
stop looks like they trying to hide some kind of deviltry,"
he assures Mother and me. "And if it's one thing honest
folk fear, it's suspicion that they hiding deviltry. You mark me now."
We marked him and he is spot-on. They stop dead, turn, and surrender
their undivided attention. I'm not seeing any "spirit of
Christ in man." All I see, all I will really ever see, are
heads. But I love those heads. I take to those heads like a
fly to pigshit. Those heads are power.
Those heads are glory. Those heads are cash money.
Hollands had covered the well with a
wooden lid, but years of weather rotted it soft. From my ditch
I imagine a hideous yellow demon slowly lifting the wood and peering
out. He smiles a mouthful of needles. I launch from a squat,
whoop a warwhoop, and crash upon the wood. It gives and I'm falling
through. Sometimes, in dreams, I still fall like that — slow and calm,
falling into and becoming darkness.
back to the world sometime later, I open my eyes to a void that
seems alive in its weight and depth, as if resting on my skin.
My entire backside is wet, and I am sitting in some kind of stinking
goo. I try raising my hands to my face, but a sharp pain in my
left arm cries no. I scream and kick,
my screams thin and hollow. After a while, I realize a fit isn't
going to save me, so I hush myself until the fear passes. I realize
I can see, as the hole I made crashing through the lid is allowing
fain't light to filter down. What it reveals makes me feel stupid
and lucky. I reckon I fell thirty feet or so, missing entire
the scattering of debris mining the pit: old wood housing exposed
nails, twisted pieces of metal, animal bones. The several inches
of mud I sank into saved my life. And the more I see, the less
afraid I am. I know Daddy and Mother will come there for a look.
My only real problem is passing time until rescue. So I decide,
for the first time since Daddy started me preaching, for the first
time in my life really, to talk directly to Jesus, to beg a sign
of Him, to see if He will, if He can answer. I want so much to
believe I'm special, very special, a chosen one among all God's
children. That I will be the one who will lead the Great Crusade
Against Satan. That Jesus sits at the
right hand of God and I will one day sit at the right hand of
Jesus. Mother tells me a lot like that, sometimes scaring me
so bad I can't sleep for the nightmares. But I want it all to
be true, for then surely Jesus will answer me.
telling Him I don't blame Him for letting me fall in the well.
I thank Him for letting me survive the fall. I say, "Baby
Jesus Crucified, I will be Your slave,
Your servant against Satan. Tell me You
want that. Tell me You want me."
I tell Baby Jesus Crucified everything I think to tell Him; I
ask every question I think to ask Him. I promise Him my soul,
my parents' souls, the souls of my future wife and children, and
the souls of all King generations thereafter. I talk and talk
until I'm tired of talking. Baby Jesus Crucified says nothing.
I keep talking, but more nothing. It’s making me angry and I
finally tire of the game. I actually curse Him. I blaspheme.
"You're nothing," I yell. "You can't even talk!"
And He still doesn't. And no lightning from the sky flashes to
burn me. No yellow demon in the darkness lurks to take me the
rest of the way to Hell. I smile. I know in that moment, somehow,
that I'm wasting breath. Just as there is no child-eating beast
in the darkness, so is there no child-loving watcher beyond the
heavens. I have no words to say all that, but I do know the shape
of the idea makes me feel good, fills me with a frightening power.
I feel at that moment, dare I say, godlike. I laugh aloud, listening
to my voice echo up the shaft louder than any voice of Jesus.
small pool of light bathing me vanishes.
"You down there Righteous King?" It's Cooter Holland,
Grotey's oldest son.
got a rope. Hold on."
hear more voices. One is Mother crying and howling. Another
is Daddy calming her. The light disappears again. Daddy says,
"Boy, you all right?"
I hurt my arm, but I'm okay."
"We sending Cooter down to get you.
Cooter Holland coming down through the
hole. He's completely trussed with rope and, like a big spider
trying to steady itself against the mudshaft
walls, he occasionally swings wild, windmilling
his arms and kicking his legs. He lands next to me with a squish.
"Right," he says, twisting his neck and body to check
behind himself. "Lock your arms
around my neck and hold on." I tell him my arm hurts too
bad to use. He sighs and glances up at the circle of light.
He bends, wraps his arms around my waist and yells "Pull!"
Up we go, dragging and flapping against the pockmarked and eroded
the well's lip, there’s Daddy and Grotey
Holland and two of Holland’s men, still gripping the rope in their
hands. They’re watching Mother thrash on the ground and praise
Jesus. It's a sight. In a blink she goes slack and doesn't move.
Daddy unwinds me from Cooter's grip
and the rope and carries me to her. He nudges her shoulder with
his boot. "Look, Mary. They up." She pops from the
ground, grabs me away from Daddy and smothers me in her breast.
"Thank Jeeezus!" she is crying.
"Thank Jeeezus!" Poor Cooter
collapses to the ground in silence, relief smearing itself across
his face like apple butter.
and Grotey Holland pry me loose again, this time from Mother.
Ole Grotey, for all the bad things said
about him in the county, seems nice enough. He's tall as Daddy,
but considerably wider. His neck bears the weight of the largest
skull on a natural man I’ve ever seen. Still, he's graceful in
his bulk. He doesn't lumber like Duncan Haney when he walks;
he sort of floats, a fat man who knows how to dance. On that
day he is wearing the cleanest pair of work overalls I've ever
seen cover a man's body. There isn't so much as a food stain.
All the men I've known in my life are usually, for the most part,
filthy. Grotey shines like he just rose drip-dry from a wash tub.
He wipes some mud from my shoulder and looks me over. "Anything
but your arm hurt?" His jaw works a large plug of chew.
Mother snatches me back and glares at him. Grotey smiles at her and tells Daddy he'll be glad to pay
for any doctor bills and he'll see his boys seal up the well for
good. "That's fine, Grotey,"
Daddy says as he bends my arm gently and tells me to wiggle my
fingers. "Don't look like anything's broke." Mother
pulls me tight to her breast again and pokes a finger at Holland.
"You going to stay away from me and mine, mister. You know
why my baby fell in your well? Cause you a heathen. You
a fetch dog. Satan wants my boy and it's a fetch dog like
you'll serve him up." Daddy's look tells me he's just about
aggravated. He steps forward and lays a hand on her shoulder.
Mary. That ain't no way to talk. If you expect Grotey
here to ever gain faith, why, we got to act Christian."
Mother sniffles, squeezing me and rocking.
Grotey releases a thick stream of tobacco juice and repeats
he'll pay for any doctor bills. "Were you scared, boy?"
he asks me. "What did you do down there all afternoon?"
to Baby Jesus Crucified."
Mother spits through her blubbering.
"Baby Jesus, eh?"
Grotey giggles. "And what did Baby Jesus have to say?"
look him straight in the eye and say, "Baby Jesus Crucified
told me he'd curse the man who owned that well." Grotey pshaws and sucks his plug.
Mother cackles and sets me on my feet, her brown eyes glowing
it for you, Grotey Holland," she
gloats, her voice reverting to a whisper. "The Lord God
Amighty is coming for you. My boy's
a prophet and he done talked to Jeeezus!"
skinny as a wraith, eyes shining. "Now don't you worry,
son," she says as she wipes her eyes with the back of her
hand. "I'm crying tears of joy. I never thought things
would go this way, get this good. Not long ago I thought maybe
we'd seen the last of happy times. I was so afraid, Right. I
kept hearing a voice that said...it said...well, I don't know."
She turns away. I’m hugging her, which brings back her smile.
"But I know now we're going to make it. I can feel it, Right.
Here." She presses her palm against her breast. "I
know it. You're a miracle, son. A living,
breathing miracle. Don't ever forget that." She
brushes a lock of hair from my forehead and touches my shoulders.
She looks desperate. "Don't ever forget that, Right. You'll
never go hungry as long as you remember your blessing, your annointing.
Never forget that Jesus talked to you and saved you from the pit.
Say you won't forget, son. Say it now." I’m kissing her
warm cheek. "I won't forget, Mother. Jesus saved me. I
won't forget, not as long as I live."
November 12th, 1940. A cold and beautiful day
in Arkansas. Reverend Brown's tent, all braced and pegged
and fully erect, is an inspiration, a green canvas Camelot. I
walk around the tent many times that morning. It's still possible
to make out the pain't shadow of "Palmer and Billhardt
Side Show" that Rev. Brown had attempted to erase from its
front. Daddy and Mother find the tent glorious as well, figuring
we can stuff nearly two-hundred people inside. I follow Mother
as she paces the rows of wooden fold-up chairs. She is mumbling
to herself about miracles and faith and money and damnation.
A large white banner strung across the far inside wall pronounces,
"There Shall Be Weeping And Wailing And
Gnashing Of Teeth." I like the sound of that.
begin arriving around four that afternoon, pulling into the meeting
field in their wagons and beat-to-hell trucks, two or three whole
families stuffed into each. As I've said, a cold day, but as
the tent fills the air grows warm. All the men are talking, stomping
their boots on the ground and rubbing their hands together. The
women are pulling tight their coats and wraps around bony shoulders
and saying nothing.
five-thirty, with the tent full and people murmuring for action,
Daddy and I take our seats. We’re sitting at the front, a bit
left of the stage and facing the crowd. There’s Mother entering
the tent from behind them in a deliberate march up the middle
aisle. She grips Grandaddy’s large
black Bible like she’s afraid it’ll sprout wings and fly away.
Folks are whispering behind their hands, some pointing as she
passes. On reaching the stage she steps up, approaches the podium,
turns to the crowd, and slams down Grandaddy’s Bible with a CRACK! All muttering and whispering
cease. Folks lean forward in their seats, craning their necks
for a better view. Mother wears a white linen dress that covers
her body from neck to ankles. She dives right into her testimony,
shaking her head, face ablaze, her black hair snapping like a
is HERE today, bothers and sisters," she shrieks. "Jesus
the man and Jesus The Lord!" Jesus, Jesus, repeat
some in the crowd. "Yes, Jesus THE MAN
and Jesus THE LORD. And you know he
ain't like ANY other man, brothers and
sisters. NO. Jesus is MAN made DEE-VINE, made HOLY. In JESUS
there is no temptation, no BETRAYAL, no heartache or loneliness.
In JESUS there is only PERFECT, PERFECT LOVE."
of the men there must find Mother a temptation. She's gorgeous
in her rapture: whirling, sweating, kicking up her legs and gyrating
her slender hips. But the words she spews! Fornication is her
lesson, the evil and sickness of fornication. She bellows and
huffs and dances. "And the DEVIL, friends.
THE DEVIL SATAN is here too. He's here and he hides. He’s here
and he hides in the house of JESUS. He's here and he hides in
a set of britches. He’s here and he hides in EVERY set of britches
IN THE HOUSE OF JESUS!" The women raise their arms and shout,
"Hallelujah!" The men hunch their shoulders and stare
to the ground.
a good thirty minutes Mother is drenched in sweat and dropping
with a groan to the stage floor. She punches her clenched fist
above her head and grunts her final epithet to the aroused women:
"SANCTITY OR FIRE! SANCTITY OR FIRE! SANCTITY
OR FIRE!" The women are so worked up they're standing
on their chairs, squealing and jabbing their fists at Heaven.
One woman trips her sickeningly fat husband, pulls off his boot,
and wallops him repeatedly with it. He does nothing but wrap
his dimpled arms around his head. Guilty as charged, I guess.
finally motions for the women to fall back, to calm themselves
and take their seats. She staggers toward us. Daddy offers his
hand and guides her to a chair next to me. She is panting and
smiling, wiping the sweat from her face with a white handkerchief
Daddy produces from his trouser pocket. He steps away from us
and is gripping the podium. Singing loud and clear, he leads
the crowd in a rousing rendition of "Jesus Saved Me From
Myself." Mother reaches beneath her chair for two wooden
tambourines and we’re pounding them to beat the devil. There’s
everybody waving their arms in the air and singing the chorus
over and over: