Tekst
We were like to drown
In the odour of honeysuckle
And old Lincolns running rich
On Oporto-Madrid.
The pecans that would dot
The little yard our great-granddaddy cleared,
The old ragged men that would stop,
Slinging slurred words over the fence.
With a smiling nod, Granddaddy'd pick us up and tote us inside.
He'd say, "Big buddy, any good man can fall on mighty bad times."
There's a thing about
All these freight trains' trumpeting sounds
That makes hearts like ours
Hum like struck steel.
There's a thing about
Being wild and green in this careful, rusted town
That makes the dark heavy air
Sit sickly still.
Most times, hopping on here takes you to Elmwood Cemetery.
And I forget which time of day, it'll take you straight to Memphis,
Tennessee.
In the kudzu and the concrete,
I was born at the feet of the city.
In the kudzu and the concrete,
We learned to love at the feet of the city.
You can talk, talk, talk about it:
Repentance and forgiveness
And loving your neighbor as yourself.
But what the hell does that mean?
When all your neighbors look the same,
And think the same,
Or else live a couple miles
Down the rural route?
In the kudzu and the concrete,
We learned to run at the feet of the city.
In the kudzu and the concrete,
We learned to love at the feet of the city.
In the kudzu and the concrete.
I was born at the feet of the city.
