Rum Gully Grits Mill

Sunrise found the farmers waiting at the grits mill by the stream. With the sound of grinding corn, neighbors worked as a team. Sharecropping is just a memory... No more tobacco to be strung~ Cottonpicking is now mechanical. There is no redneck song to be sung. I am a redneck and proud of it. We are a special breed. Don't get on our 'fighting side'. We stand up for what we believe. We buy syrup in a bottle. The grits mill grinds no more. Vegetables don't taste the same~ We buy them from a store. No backache from picking cotton~ Hands aren't bleeding and sore. The grits mill has crumbled Times just aren't the same anymore... *correct spelling-grist *(Southern Pronunciation = grits)