22 Jul 2007
She was born the youngest of seven
In a three-room bungalow
Wrestling hurricanes and rattlers
With a rifle and a hoe
The boys lined up at county fairs
To swing her do-si-do
And with empty pockets, worn out shoes
They crawled off alone
Grew corn and beans and babies
Out of that rocky ground
And she stood on the porch with that shotgun on her hip
When the taxman came around
Lost her grandfather to Sherman
And a grandson to Vietnam
She could pick a bale every day
There was iron in those hands
They say she’s lived forever
They say she’ll never die
As long as trees grow from these hills
And rain falls from the sky