The sun set. The crickets started wailed,
out on the lawn, beneath the pail.
As the cars silence, stop going by
as the moon, its craters, starts getting high.
Where the South is heavy on the tongue
where the laundry is rightfully wrung--
peace of the yard we fight to keep--
Where the willow goes entranced to weep.
This is the land that has born I.
Made from the grand blue Southern sky--
the red Georgia clay of river bands
from the gleaming white Savannah sands.
Where the woods they keep secrets still
of simple times and cotton mills.
Where a boy can grow-- be a grown man--
And night settles deep upon the land.
Ain't got no need for fancy lights--
buildings reaching those godly heights.
We have the morals, the family, the olden times--
air to breathe and ol' friendly rhymes.
Here the patriotic U.S. is still alive,
thriving like a yellow jacket hive.
Where the citizen still has his rights --
and the new must adjust thier sights.
On this land I place my name
with all the others of the same.
And on this grass I will lay my head
on this land I can keep my bed.
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