City Folks Call Us Poor

Moon light shinging on the grassy meadow, looks like dimands shinging in the
night.Whipperwills singing in the white
oaks, Coondogs barking in the bright moon light.
Honeysuckel smells just like sweet perfume, old dogs lieing over by the door,
watermellon rinds mamma puts up in a jar, and the city folks call us poor
Singing rock of ages on the front porch, watching fireflys ligh up now and then,
listening to Bill Monroe on the opry, singing
somethin bout his uncle pen.
Honeysuckle smells just like sweet perfume, old dogs lieing over by the door,
watermellon rinds mamma puts up in a jar, and
the city folks call us poor.
God he paints a picture in the evening sky, blue and purple, orange,
shades of red. he knows we cant afford no fancy
paintings, so we look at the real things instead.
Honersuckle smells just like sweet perfume, old deogs lieing over by the door,
watermellon rinds mamma puts up in a jar,
and the city folks they call us poor, oh the city folks call us poor.