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?