Well the dirt was clay and was the color of the blood in me A twelve acre farm on a ridge in south Tennessee We left our sweat all over this ground Behind a mule we watched grow old row after row Tryin' to grow corn and cotton in 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 credit in the winter time to carry us through the cold When the wind would blow Tryin' to raise corn and cotton in ground so poor that grass won't grow Well the one I loved used to walk those fields with me A hard working man true as one could be. But then one year death was goin' round and quickly took its toll My Jimmy had to go Now he lies there a sleepin' 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 grave where my Jimmy lies there's a beautiful sight to behold And nobody knows Why there's flowers growin' in ground so poor that grass won't grow Pretty flowers growin' in ground so poor that grass won't grow