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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)
Copyright ©
Edna Carroll
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