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 that sack thru 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 not when you’re trying to sell.
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.
On Saturday nights w’ed get dressed up,
Catch us a drive 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.
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.