The dirt was clay and was the color of the blood in me A twelve acre farm on a ridge is southern Tennessee We left that sweat all over that land behind a mule we watched grow old Row after row trying to grow corn and cotton on ground so poor that grass won’t grow There was one old store in the hollow we all called town It belonged to a gentle old man named Henry Brown He gave us credit in the wintertime so we could live through the cold when the wind brought snow Trying to grow corn and cotton on ground so poor that grass won’t grow The one I loved walked through those fields with me She was a hard working woman true as one could be But then one year death was going ‘round and swiftly took it’s toll Janie had to go Now she lies asleep under ground so poor that grass won’t grow As I stand here looking over this part of Tennessee The fields are bare as far as the eye can see And over the grave where Janie lies there’s a beautiful sight to behold And no one knows why there’s flowers blooming on ground so poor that grass won’t growTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
