July 28, 2004

Poetry: Southern Gentleman

In the dirt of the mornin' I slip my boots back on
Wander to the fields to watch the day raise dawn
Got some grass in my teeth and my cap for my head
A truck in my driveway says take my gun when I'm dead
Jus' a poor cotton picker from South Alabam
I do it like I do because that's the only way I can
I got whiskey in my bottles because it pours comfort in my name
Kudzu on my barn, yeah everything's the same
Don't call me a redneck or a hick if you're a fool
You big city boys screw up everything you do
I've got corn in my backfield and some taters on the vine
Can't take away what's mine all mine
My kids were born here and one day I'll rise again from this ground
Not ashamed of who I am because my daddy taught me proud
And you folks from the city that never get no dirt on your hands
Never go fishing or watch NASCAR, you don't understand
I was born in the South and in Georgia here I'll die
As long as you don't tell me what to do
We don't have to see eye to eye
But if you come to my town and tell me there's nothing right
Our floor's too dirty or it's too hot to sleep at night
Go back to your freeways and your murder capitals too
Cuz I'll tell you something that ole' Hank always knew
You can take the country to the city and city to the land
But you can't wash away the Dixie from a Southern Gentleman
I was born in the South and in Georgia here I'll die
But let me tell you cousin, the South will survive
The South will survive

I know, the only thing worse than reading my bad poems is reading my bad country songs. Suffer.


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