Oh, Adeline
An original murder ballad, inspired by the traditional folk songs “Poor Ellen Smith” and “Two Sisters”
Trigger Warning
This piece includes themes of drowning, death, guilt, and implied violence. Please proceed with care.
Lyrics
Oh, Adeline
We walked where the sycamores shade the old track
With a heavy gray sky riding low on our backs
She talked of a ticket, I spoke of the land
How the past is a shackle folks won’t understand
The river ran quiet, the moon low and thin
I swore to my Savior I’d bring her back in
Oh, Adeline
The river took your breath away
Oh, Adeline
There’s a price that I’ll pay
The slate is slick, the water’s black
And there’s no trail to lead us back
Poor Adeline
I’ve crossed that heavy, dark line
One step on the edge where the slate turned to slick
The air went to static, the silence turned thick
The ground gave a shudder and gave to the stream
A crack in the night, a tear in a dream
I shouted her name to the heavy black air
But the river was hungry and she wasn’t there
Repeat Chorus
The law found a shoe in the mud by the bend
Said my story starts ragged and won’t find an end
I tell ’em I loved her, I swear that I stayed
I show ’em the river, the bed that it made
But late in the night when the house settles low
I hear that dark water and know what I know
If guilt is a mountain, I’m lost on the peak
If sin is a language, it’s all that I speak
Don’t call it murder, that’s a label, a lie
Call it a moment that simply passed by
I never pushed her, I made no demand
I just didn’t tighten the grip of my hand
Repeat Chorus
Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org
Copyright
Lyrics: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Songwriter Note
I am a songwriter and a musician, but I'm not confident that I have the voice that's needed to inhabit these verses.
My hope is that these words eventually find an artist and storyteller to help me breathe life into them. If that collaboration never comes, I may record them myself rather than let them settle into silence.
Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit, grace, and shadows just north of the county line.

