The hill is steep, the trees are old
July is hot, December cold
the rest of the year, mighty fine
not far from that Tennessee line.
A branch runs left, a bog lies right
can't even see the stars at night
just poplar, maple, pine and oak
the lawn's a little yellow joke
the climbing roses bloom and crawl
poke sallet's growing twelve feet tall.
Got birds, got bugs, got cats and dog
a brush pile over a rotten log
where all manner of critters creep
raising Hell when I try to sleep.
Not me, no way I'd ever roam
I'll just kick back right here at home.