Lyrics

A brave little girl born in north Pennsylvania,
Made her way up to Boston by road upon road.
How she loved to get lost, and her stories could rein you.
Pollyanna, they called her. By hope she abode.

Shades of grey skies and goodbyes and unwise collisions,
Took an untempered spirit and sent it to war,
Making poor scribes of bad guys who sing indecisions.
Pollyanna, they reprise their sad, sad songs of yore.

Rallied up voices will carry a tune in the rain.
They may not know the words, but they’ll sing the refrain.
Pollyanna, knocked down, always came back for more.
From London to Paris, the blandest Virginia,
To old Carolina, for all you have in you,
You’re owed, Pollyanna,
Your ode for the sad songs of yore.

There’s two sides to all of the saddest love stories.
Like Jefferson nickels and tenpenny nails.
On one side, the bust of a man in his glory.
The other side tells what remains of the tale.

She never saved anything for the swim back to shore.
Never bothered to doubt or keep up with the score.
Pollyanna, knocked down, always came back for more.
Tempestuous, angry, foolhardy, and brave.
She sooner would drown before drifting away.
She’s owed, Pollyanna,
She’s owed for the sad songs of yore.

So I sing of that girl full of rapt fascination,
To the liner note sages who lost their rapport,
So the monotone poets hear my exaltation.
Pollyanna, to answer the sad, sad songs of yore.