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Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Gene Chrisman
Gene Chrisman
Drums
Reggie Young
Reggie Young
Lead Guitar
John Christopher
John Christopher
Rhythm Guitar
Bobby Emmons
Bobby Emmons
Organ
Leo LeBlanc
Leo LeBlanc
Pedal Steel Guitar
Bobby Wood
Bobby Wood
Piano
Heyward Bishop
Heyward Bishop
Percussion
Mike Leech
Mike Leech
Bass
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
John Prine
John Prine
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Arif Mardin
Arif Mardin
Producer
Dale "Smitty" Smith
Dale "Smitty" Smith
Assistant Engineer
Ryan Smith
Ryan Smith
Mastering Engineer
Stan A. Kesler
Stan A. Kesler
Recording Engineer

Lyrics

Sam Stone came home To his wife and family After serving in the conflict overseas And the time that he served Had shattered all his nerves And left a little shrapnel in his knees But the morhpine eased the pain And the grass grew 'round his brain And gave him all the confidence he lacked With a purple heart and a monkey on his back There's a hole in daddy's arm Where all the money goes Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose Little pitchers have big ears Don't stop to count the years Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios Hm, hm, hm, hm Sam Stone's welcome home didn't last too long He went to work when he'd spent his last dime And Sammy took to stealing When he got that empty feeling For a hundred dollar habit without overtime And the gold roared through his veins Like a thousand railroad trains And eased his mind in the hours that he chose While the kids ran around wearin' other peoples' clothes There's a hole in daddy's arm Where all the money goes Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose Little pitchers have big ears Don't stop to count the years Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios Hm, hm, hm, hm Sam Stone was alone when he popped his last balloon Climbing walls while sittin' in a chair Well, he played his last request While the room smelled just like death With an overdose hovering in the air But life had lost its fun There was nothing to be done But trade his house that he bought on the G.I. bill For a flag-draped casket on a local hero's hill There's a hole in daddy's arm Where all the money goes Jesus Christ died for nothin' I suppose Little pitchers have big ears Don't stop to count the years Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios Hm, hm, hm, hm, hm, hm, hm, hm, hm
Writer(s): John Prine Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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