Well the dirt was clay and was the color of the blood in me
A twelve acre farm on a ridge in south Tennessee
We left our sweat all over this ground
Behind a mule we watched grow old row after row
Tryin' to grow corn and cotton in ground so poor that grass won't grow
There was one old store in the holler we all called town
It belonged to a gentle old man named Henry Brown
He gave us credit in the winter time to carry us through the cold
When the wind would blow
Tryin' to raise corn and cotton in ground so poor that grass won't grow
Well the one I loved used to walk those fields with me
A hard working man true as one could be.
But then one year death was goin' round and quickly took its toll
My Jimmy had to go
Now he lies there a sleepin' 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 my Jimmy lies there's a beautiful sight to behold
And nobody knows
Why there's flowers growin' in ground so poor that grass won't grow
Pretty flowers growin' in ground so poor that grass won't grow
