Polk Salad Annie

(words & music by Tony Joe White)
Some of you all never been down South too much...
I' gonna tell you a little story, so you'll understand where I'm talking about
Down there we have a plant that grows out in the woods and the fields,
and it looks something like a turnip green.
Everybody calls it Polk salad. Now that's Polk salad.
Used to know a girl that lived down there and
she'd go out in the evenings to pick a mess of it...
Carry it home and cook it for supper, 'cause that's about all they had to eat,
But they did all right.

Down in Louisiana
Where the alligators grow so mean
Lived a girl that I swear to the world
Made the alligators look tame

Polk salad Annie
'Gators got your granny
Everybody said it was a shame
For the mama was working on the chain-gang
What a mean, vicious woman

Everyday before suppertime
She'd go down by the truck patch
And pick her a mess of Polk salad
And carry it home in a tote sack

Polk salad Annie
'Gators got you granny
Everybody said it was a shame
'Cause the mama was working on the chain-gang
Whoo, how wretched, dispiteful, straight-razor totin' woman,
Lord have mercy.

Sock a little Polk salad to him
Yeah, you know what, yeah, yeah

But daddy was a lazy and a no-count
Claimed he had a bad back
All her brothers were fit for
Was stealing watermelons out of my truck

For once Polk salad Annie
'Gators got your granny
Everybody said it was a shame
For the mama was working on the chain-gang

Sock a little Polk salad to him
You know what meets a meal mention
You sock a little
Hey, hey, hey, yeah, yeah
Chic a bon, chic a bon, chic a bon bon bon bon
Chic a bon, chic a bon, chic a bon bon bon bon
Sock a little Polk salad to him
You know what meets a meal mention
Sock a little Polk salad to him
You know what meets a meal mention
Chinc, chinc, chinc, chin, ling, ling ling

We recommend: Why Not Now

Ho visto,
la gente della mia età andare via,
lungo le strade che non portano mai a niente,
cercare un sogno che conduce alla pazzia,
nella ricerca di qualcosa che non trovano, nel mondo che hanno già.
Lungo le notti che dal vino son bagnate,
dentro le stanze da pastiglie trasformate,
lungo le nuvole di fumo, nel mondo, fatto di città,
essere contro od ingoiare, la nostra stanca civiltà.
È un Dio che è morto,
ai bordi delle strade, Dio è morto,
nelle auto prese a rate, Dio è morto,
nei miti dell' estate


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