They come in their summery dresses and jackets so fine, the rich folks who measure success with a big dollar sign.
They gaze with delight with the rocks and the scraggly pines
The come in the Spring and they stay 'til the Fall
On Paradise Mountain away from it all
Stubble and stone make a hard row to how
What little will grow, the drought will kill

The summer folks call it Paradise Mountain but we call it Poverty Hill
They say we have beautiful faces as grainy as wood
Yeah, they'd like to live here of all places if only they could
Well, we don't get those wood, grainy faces from livin' too good

It's the rocks and the sun and dust and the heat
It's too much of work and too little to eat
They pack and say what a pity that they have to go
They say that Old Smokey's so pretty all covered with snow
But how we get through the winter they never will know
No lard for the pantry. No grist for the meal
And winter's are cold over Poverty Hill

Yes, we call it Poverty Hill.