Lyrics for Dreaming Iowa, Spring Edition
Lyrics for Family Folk Machine: Dreaming Iowa, Saturday, May 2, 2026
KEYS TO THE KINGDOM
The Nields, arr. Chris Eastburn
I was making my way through the desert, I was making my way to the sea.
I was making some money for a ticket on a boat when the keys to the kingdom came to me.
No more will you walk as a stranger, no more will you travel alone.
No more will you be without your family; you’ve got the keys to the kingdom, come on home.
You’ve got the keys to the kingdom, come on home.
No more will you be without your family; you’ve got the keys to the kingdom, come on home.
So take me back, take me back, take me way back,
you’ve got the keys to the kingdom, come on home.
Well, I picked up my map and my compass. I left the money for somebody to find.
I’ve got everything I need to make that long journey home.
I had the keys to the kingdom all the time.
I’ve got everything I need to make that long journey home;
I had the keys to the kingdom all the time.
HOME IN IOWA CITY: OUT OF MANY, ONE
Alma Drake and Morgan Brown, arr. Alma Drake and Jean Littlejohn
This is my home, everyone can belong here to find their place like a puzzle fitting together.
A place where you can grow the home that you desire, and be comfortable being who you are.
This is my home, there is no fear. Everyone is welcome here.
And if we work together, everyone can belong. Home in Iowa City: out of many, one.
Iowa City was born in diversity. The world sent its brightest to our university.
I want to be surrounded by a rainbow of friends in a place where kindness never ends.
We could be leaders if we’d all work together. Strength in our numbers, we can be better.
Everyone can speak their mind without fear, and everyone can feel that they belong here.
WILDCAT DEN
Words: Susan Stamnes, Music: Alma Drake
arr. Alma Drake and Jean Littlejohn
Hummingbird, wings a-blur, rustling wind, shining sun.
Emotion floodgate, river rush, clouds race.
Savor Nature, Nature savior, savor Nature, Nature savior.
Creeping vine, columbine, Sisyphys, uphill climb,
Cave-cool darkness, finding peace of mind.
Steamboat Rock, Devil’s Alley, Fat Man’s Squeeze, down valley,
gravel crunch, gurgle creek, frog moan, hawk screech.
Twig snap, acorn cap, birdsong, pine scent, breathe in, breathe out.
Wildcat Den, day well-spent.
THREE SONGS FROM THE SACRED HARP
Within thy circling power I stand
Words: Isaac Watts, Francis Gurtz, Music: P. Dan Brittain
Within thy circling power I stand, on every side I find thy hand.
Awake, asleep, at home, abroad, I am surrounded still by Love.
In valley or on mountainside, in thy sweet grace I do abide.
By lightning fierce, by brooklet mild, I long to be as Nature’s child.
Lord, what a thoughtless wretch was I
Words: Isaac Watts, Music: Daniel Read
Lord, what a thoughtless wretch was I, to mourn and murmur and repine
to see the wicked placed on high, in pride and robes of honor shine.
But oh, their end, their dreadful end, thy sanctuary taught me so,
on slippery rocks I see them stand, and fiery billows roll below.
Now shall my inward joys arise
Words: Isaac Watts, Francis Gurtz, Music: William Billings
Now shall my inward joys arise and burst into a song;
Almighty love inspires my heart, and pleasure tunes my tongue.
Such love doth from the spirit flow, to guide our inward sight;
It leadeth hearts to humbly grow and wait upon the Light.
TEND TO OUR GARDEN
FFM kids and Nicole Upchurch
arr. Nicole Upchurch, Hemlock Stanier, and the FFM kids
We use our hands to melt the ice
through love not hate we water seeds and tend to our garden
I have a dream for Iowa
A dream for everyone, a dream that’s never done, let’s tend to our garden
We never knew that we could fly
Until we tried; let’s tend to our garden
The only way to melt the ice is to feel the pain, don’t go numb
seize your strength and overcome
Feel the pain, don’t go numb and tend to your garden
We use our hands to melt the ice
through love not hate we water seeds and tend to our garden
HEARTLAND
Nicole Upchurch, via the Awful Purdies, arr. Jean Littlejohn and Alma Drake
At home, I’m Mexicana; at school, I’m American
We used to live in Sabinas, on the south side of the borderlands
My mother, she is a painter. Her landscapes are vivid and bold
Her dark eyes reflect the memory—recuerdos de Mexico
Y mientras caminamos por las tierras del Norte nuestros corazones apuntan al sur
In the North we may stand, still our hearts are directed south of the borderlands
Abuelito, he worked in the factory for a dollar and a quarter each day
His worn hands a distant memory, maravillas upon his grave
Now our family lives in the Heartland, but our hearts are broken in two
Un pedazo nos mantiene vivos, y el otro enterrado en el sur se quedó (esperando)
A la vida le pedimos que nuestros anhelos; Se llenen de alas para volar en una tierra sin fronteras
I AIN’T GOT NO HOME IN THIS WORLD ANYMORE
Woody Guthrie, arr. Jean Littlejohn and Alma Drake
I ain’t got no home, I’m just a roaming ‘round. Work when I can get it, I go from town to town.
Police make it hard wherever I may go; and I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.
My brothers and my sisters are stranded on this road,
a hot and dusty road that a million feet have trod;
Rich man took our home and drove us from our door,
and I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.
Was a-working on the shares, and always I was poor; my crops I laid into the bankers’ store;
My wife took down and died upon the cabin floor, and I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.
I mined in your mines, and I gathered in your corn;
I been working, mister, since the day I was born;
Now I worry all the time, like I never done before, ‘cause I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.
Now as I look around, it’s mighty plain to see this world is such a great and funny place to be.
Oh, the gambling man is rich, and the working man is poor,
and I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.
IOWA
Donovan Woods and Aoife Maria O’Donovan, arr. Jean Littlejohn
I am waiting for this book to get good; I do not have your patience.
So, I’m driving up to Chicago; I’m getting weird looks at gas stations.
I did not bring a winter coat; I do not have your foresight.
A holistic practitioner told me once it’s why I will not live a long life.
I am trying to remember where I gave up if it was not in Iowa.
Iowa, somewhere in the middle of the middle of the Great Plains I saw
a little girl waving her hand out the window of a car, saying goodbye to her ma.
Iowa, where the tall grass prairie used to ripple like the ocean in the breeze,
and the hummingbird still suckled from the flowers in the trees.
It’d bring you to your knees.
I can imagine my whole life, sweet and never-ending in every house I float by,
but they’d never let me blend in.
I called a taxi in Des Moines; I met him at the corner.
When I asked about his army coat, he said he would not tell a foreigner.
ELIZA JANE
Words: Winthrop Packard, 1895
Music: Rick Spencer and Dawn Indermuehle, arr. Jean Littlejohn
Eliza Jane, she had a wheel, its rim was painted red.
Eliza had another wheel that turned inside her head.
She put the two together, she gave them both a whirl.
And now she rides the Parkway sides, a twentieth-century girl.
“Oh, have you seen Eliza Jane a-cyclin’ in the park?
Have you seen Eliza Jane?” the people all remark.
They shout, “Hi, hi!” as she rides by, the little doggies bark.
For we all have a pain when Eliza Jane goes cycling through the park!
No more do skirts enfold her, tho’ much her Papa grieves,
But baggy trousers hold her in their big pneumatic sleeves.
For where you see the bloomers bloom she sits her wheel astride.
She makes a sight would stop a fight as in the park she rides.
This is emancipation year, the woman movement’s on.
Eliza plans to be a man, ‘tis sad to think upon.
She thinks she needs the ballot now, her freedom to enhance.
She wants to pose in Papa’s clothes: it is for this she pants.
Eliza had a nice young man (alas, ‘twas long ago!),
As gay and fair, as debonair, as any man you know.
He saw her ride in bloomers; he screamed and quickly fled.
And as he ran, this nice young man in trembling accents said:
“Oooh, have you seen Eliza Jane a-cyclin’ in the park?
Have you seen Eliza Jane?” the people all remark.
The shout, “Hi, hi!” as she rides by, the little doggies bark.
For we all have a pain when Eliza Jane goes cycling through the park!
Eliza’s ma no longer speaks unto Eliza Jane;
She claims that dime museum freaks give her a sense of pain.
Her dad no longer cashes checks, but wanders in the streets.
And thus he cries, in sad surprise, to everyone he meets.
“Oh, have you seen Eliza Jane a-cyclin’ in the park?
Have you seen Eliza Jane?” the people all remark.
The shout, “Hi, hi!” as she rides by, the little doggies bark.
For we all have a pain when Eliza Jane goes cycling through the park!
Eliza dear, we sadly fear you have not started right.
You will not see more liberty by being such a fright.
Asylums yawn for you, my dear, and in the books we read
how bloomers that too early bloom soon fade and go to seed.
HARDLY BREAKING
Jeffrey C. Capps, arr. Jean Littlejohn
The beauty came on without a warning, shimmered on the fields, a crystal morning
The creak and hum of workday starting, the soft, sweet sigh of lovers parting
The notion of home is complicated by memories and dreams not replicated
The reservoir of hope runs shallow; parcels of peace, fallow
Hey, is this a place, Tell me now, is this still a place for me?
Hey, is this a place, Tell me now, is this still a place for me?
My head is heavy, hands are shaking; My spirit is tired but hardly breaking
THE RIPPEY DUMPS
Words: Susan Stamnes, Alma Drake, and Janet Lessner
Music: Alma Drake, arr. Alma Drake and Jean Littlejohn
Iowa used to be a leading light. Our constitution gave each person the same rights.
It wasn’t perfect, but people prospered well until the Rippey Dumps knocked us down that hill.
From the first woman lawyer and desegregated schools we’ve slammed once-open doors
and ended up like fools.
What goes down must come up. What goes out must come in.
It may be darkest before the dawn, but this old world ain’t gonna stop spinning.
Well, in two thousand seven, Civil Rights got a boost.
Iowa Civil Code said, “You can be who you choose.”
But in ‘twenty-five the pearl-clutchers cried
and sent us down in the Rippey Dumps, making law out of lies.
You preach from the bench with a counterfeit grace while justice rides loops in a crooked place.
Back in the seventies we opened the door, took in the weary from a far-distant war.
Now ICE raids tear through factory lots, and down in the Rippey Dumps compassion rots.
We traded welcome signs for walls and fear, and left terrified families on a path unclear.
Not gonna lie, the future looks like a farce
‘cause power clings to power when the haters are in charge.
We can’t just keep living with the status quo
‘cause the Rippey Dumps ain’t nothing compared to that deep hole.
With history and energy on our side, surely we can get on that uphill ride.
What goes down must come up. What goes out must come in.
It may be darkest before the dawn, but this old world ain’t gonna stop spinning.
THE WHOLE TIME
Sam Knutson
arr. Sam Knutson, Alma Drake, and Jean Littlejohn
Sat next to old Bo at the counter, getting lunch the other day.
Said he could see the end of a long road coming, but it won’t show up today.
Take it easy. Keep your head up. Walk the line even if you’re fed up.
Took a walk and a smile to get you what you’re standing on today—brother, it’ll let up.
But it’s gonna take the whole time if you don’t mind, gonna take the whole time if you do.
You can’t tell me nothing I don’t know. I wouldn’t pay them taxes if it wasn’t the law.
Drive ‘em up, move me out. You don’t want to see me go no lower.
They’re going to pave the road to Downey, put up million dollar homes.
It’s the best view in the county. I wish they’d leave us alone.
Well, I got roughed up on my way in, so I ain’t got all I had.
But I made it, so you owe me, and it won’t be all that bad.
But it’s gonna take the whole time if you don’t mind, gonna take the whole time if you do.
WOULDN’T THAT BE NICE
Words: Michael Sauder, Music: Michael Sauder and Alma Drake
arr. Michael Sauder, Alma Drake, and Jean Littlejohn
Wouldn’t it be nice to recognize all the colors that make the light
All the wings that help us fly when we feel the weight of life
Wouldn’t that be right, wouldn’t that be nice?
Wouldn’t it be nice to empathize with those who might be left behind,
with those who have fallen down and could use a hand to rise
Wouldn’t that be right, wouldn’t that be nice?
Wouldn’t it be nice to harmonize all our voices, low and high
To harmonize what we do with what we pray, to make a kinder place where everyone is safe
Where fires are for keeping warm and pitchforks are for hay
Where stern looks are made with love and truth is on display
Where fields are full, where water’s clean and people have a say
Where every kid can be their self in the light of day
To make a place where we give more than we take away
Wouldn’t that be right, wouldn’t that be nice?
We can stand together, you and I
We can walk together, you and I
We can work together, you and I
We can sing together, you and I
HOW CAN I KEEP FROM SINGING?
Music: R. Lowry, Words: Anne Warner, 1864
4th verse: Alma Drake, arr. Jean Littlejohn
My life flows on in endless song, above earth’s lamentations.
I hear the real though far-off hymn that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear that music ringing.
It sounds an echo in my soul, how can I keep from singing?
What though the tempest loudly roars, I hear the truth, it liveth.
What though the darkness ‘round me close, songs in the night it giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that rock I’m clinging.
Since love shall reign o’er all the earth, how can I keep from singing?
When tyrants tremble, sick with fear, and hear their death knells ringing.
When friends rejoice, both far and near, how can I keep from singing?
In prison cell and dungeon vile, our thoughts to them are winging.
When friends by shame are undefiled, how can I keep from singing?
So life flows on in endless song, outlasting kings and tyrants.
We raise our voices from our hearts; how could we dare be silent?
No shouts of rage or chilling fear shall stop our freedom ringing.
Since music breathes love to the world, how can we keep from singing?