Table

Don't worry about it, ready? One, two, three He prepares a table for me and One of these days, I'll have to sit down and eat He returns with a carload of groceries And I never ask where they came from Corrects my hand as it's holding the knife Cutting up vegetables quickly and fine For the pot on the stove, for the line out the door Give me your tired and poor He pours a pool of salt in my hand Showing me how I ought to throw a little bit All over the surface like rain, the surface like rain On the wicked and righteous, the laymen and saints Let me fix you a plate We can find you a place to sit down Have you ever tried trying to run out Of everything you got?