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