the dirt was clay an was the color of the blood in me a twelve acre farm on a ridge in south tennessee we left our sweat all over that land behind a mule we watched grow old row after row trying to grow corn an cotton on ground so poor that grass won t grow there was one old store in the holler we all called town it belonged to a gentle old man named henry brown he gave us grits and in the winter time so we could live through the cold when the winds brought snow trying to grow corn an cotton on ground so poor that grass won t grow the one i loved walked through those fields with me a hard workin woman true as one could be but then one year death was goin round and swiftly took it s toll janie had to go now she lies asleep under ground so poor that grass won t 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 ground where janie lies there s a beautiful sight to behold and no one knows why there s flowers growin on ground so poor that grass won t grow 