The dirt was clay and was the color of the blood in me
A twelve acre farm on a ridge in south 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 won’t 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 won’t grow
Solo
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 it’s toll, Janie had to go
Now she lies asleep under ground so poor that grass won’t 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 there’s a beautiful sight to behold And no one knows
Why there’s flowers growing on ground so poor that grass won’t grow