Porch Swing In Tupelo

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There’s a porch swing in Tupelo, in the shape of the south,

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Where the sweet honey drips out by that old hush your mouth.

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It’s a slow road on down that old Natchez Trace,

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Through Alabama cotton fields to a state of grace.

It’s a crisp, golden autumn on the Tennessee line,

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Rollin’ down the Mississippi like you’re headed back in time.

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Town’s closed on Sunday. Everybody’s in church.

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It’s empty as the moon, this place here on earth.

And, this place don’t change. Some places move slow.

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I’m just rockin’ myself on this porch swing in Tupelo.

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I got nothin’ to do ‘cept hang in the breeze.

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Ghosts of the old south are all around me.

Yeah, swing high. Yeah, swing low.

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Here on this porch swing in Tupelo.

His mama must have loved him, that truck drivin’ boy.

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With the grease monkey look, and a rock and roll voice.

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Well, I was just thinkin’ about him ‘cause I guess he sat here.

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Singin’, “ah, praise to god,” through poverty’s tears,

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Here, on this porch swing in Tupelo.

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