In a Mississippi cotton picking Delta town One dusty street to walk up and down Nothing much to see but a starving hound In a Mississippi cotton picking Delta town
Down in the Delta where I was born All we raised was cotton potatoes and corn I've picked cotton till my fingers hurt Dragging the sack through that Delta dirt
And I've worked hard the whole week long Picking my fingers to the blood and bone There ain't a lot of money in a cotton bale At least when you try to sell
On Saturday nights we'd get dressed up Catch us a ride on a pickup truck On a gravel road it nearly strangled us That cotton picking Delta dust
We'd sit across the street on the depot porch Looking at the folks looking back at us Munching on a dust covered ice cream cone And wondering how we'd get back home
