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)
Categories:
cottonpicking, memory, nostalgia,
Form: Rhyme
Well, bless your cotton-picking heart,
she said in that sweet southern way
they have of nicely saying dumb fart.
Sorry i didn't know your precious art
was not Picasso, but paint by numbers
Well, "bless your cotton-picking heart"
Well didn't know it was a pushcart
When the nag, I tried to saddle
as they were nicely saying dumb fart,
So when music they fiddled "Mozart,"
Sneeringly flipped "Oh Mozart is it?"
And they smirking said Bless your heart,
Knew had surely their ignorance I did outsmart,
When to fisticuffs challenged, knocked out,
Knew I was that mythical dumb fart
Therefore, knew had to face this challenging fact,
That the South never, never rises unattacked,
Unless you mess with bless your heart,
Which they use to call you so sweetly a "dumb fart."
Categories:
cottonpicking, change, life, people, sweet,
Form: Villanelle