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 wont
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 wont 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 its toll
Janie had to go
Now she lies asleep under ground so poor that grass wont 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 theres a beautiful sight to behold
And no one knows why theres flowers blooming on ground so poor that grass
wont grow
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