In a Mississippi cotton picking Delta town
One dusty street to walk up and down
Nothing much to see but a starving hound
In a Mississippi cotton picking Delta town

Down in the Delta where I was born
All we raised was cotton potatoes and corn
I've picked cotton till my fingers hurt
Dragging the sack through that Delta dirt

And I've worked hard the whole week long
Picking my fingers to the blood and bone
There ain't a lot of money in a cotton bale
At least when you try to sell

On Saturday nights we'd get dressed up
Catch us a ride on a pickup truck
On a gravel road it nearly strangled us
That cotton picking Delta dust

We'd sit across the street on the depot porch
Looking at the folks looking back at us
Munching on a dust covered ice cream cone
And wondering how we'd get back home