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The house sags like it’s grieving, paint
Peels off in spots, you can’t find much
Grass in the yard, the barn doors ain’t
Tight to the wind, guess my eye don’t touch

On nothing beyond my patch of corn
Where plagued by weeds and bowed by debt
I look for luck where I was born
And the old folks wrote my name in sweat.

But like I’m rooted hoe in hand
To red clay hills I’m here to stay
Where cockleburs cover the cut-over land
And my wife lies sleeping one valley away.