They call them crops, but they might as well be weeds.
Mr. Eli Whitney found a great way to get rid of those seeds.
Now the supply outstrips the demands and the needs.
All that makes this stuff cheaper by the bale.
Sellers get less money when they make a sale.
None of that makes any difference at all.
I am stuck picking in this field all summer until fall.
Lord, send your winged chariot down to me right away.
I am ready, willing, and able to meet my dying day.
Inspired by Tim Ryerson’s poem “Cotton Pickin’ Paradise”