| Not too far from the battleyard
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| On a reverse curve on down
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| Not two miles of the town depot
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| Sullivan’s shack was found
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| Back on the higher ground
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| You could see him every day
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| Walking on down the line
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| Old brown sack across his back
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| Long hair down behind
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| Speaking his worried mind
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| It’s long way from the Delta
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| From the North Georgia Hills
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| And a tote sack full of ginseng
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| Don’t pay no traveling bills
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| I’m too old to ride the rails
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| Or thumb the road alone
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| So I guess I’ll never make it back to home
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| My muddy water Mississippi Delta home
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| Now the winters here, they get too cold
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| The damp, it makes me ill
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| Can’t dig no roots on a mountainside
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| With the ground froze hard and still
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| Gotta stay at the foot of the hill
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| But next summer, when things turn right
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| The companies will pay high
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| I’ll make enough money to pay my bills
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| And bid this mountain goodbye
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| Then he said with a smile
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| It’s long way from the Delta
|
| From the North Georgia Hills
|
| And a tote sack full of ginseng
|
| Don’t pay no traveling bills
|
| I’m too old to ride the rails
|
| Or thumb the road alone
|
| So I guess I’ll never make it back to home
|
| My muddy water Mississippi Delta home |