The dirt was clay and was the color of the blood in me

A twelve acre farm on a ridge is southern Tennessee

We left that sweat all over that land behind a mule we watched grow old

Row after row trying to grow corn and cotton on ground so poor that grass wont

grow

There was one old store in the hollow we all called town

It belonged to a gentle old man named Henry Brown

He gave us credit in the wintertime so we could live through the cold when the

wind brought snow

Trying to grow corn and cotton on ground so poor that grass wont grow

The one I loved walked through those fields with me

She was a hard working woman true as one could be

But then one year death was going round and swiftly took its toll

Janie had to go

Now she lies asleep under ground so poor that grass wont 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 Janie lies theres a beautiful sight to behold

And no one knows why theres flowers blooming on ground so poor that grass

wont grow