Take your harvest from the soil That is blacker than the color of the coal But youre never gonna keep anything you try to reap If you pull it from the dusty Georgia bowl All the blossoms from the Magnolia Have shriveled up and fallen to the ground And I know I should have told you That the rust was gonna tear your engine down When the stones above your head And youre driving in the nails When youre gone what kind of song are they gonna sing? When the clay falls upon the pine All that remains is what you leave behind When youre lying with that stone above your head Sit and listen, tune them in Hear the trials and the hardships of my kin Taken by the tones of the Cactus and the Rose And the rhymes that Garry Stewart used to spin All the easy people running to me You can see their chickens running through the yard Put them on the table every Sunday Then they bow their heads and give thanks to the Lord
garry, shriveled, head, blacker, stone