They come in their summery dress and jackets so fine
Rich folks who measure success with a big dollar sign
They gaze with delight at the rocks and the scraggly pine
They 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 hoe
What little will grow the drought will kill
The summer folks call it Paradise Mountain
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 these wood grainy faces from living too good
Its the rocks and the dust and the sun and the heat
Its too much work and too little to eat
They pack and they say what a pity that they have to go
They say that Old Smoky's so pretty all covered with snow
But how we get thru the winter they never will know
No lard for the pantry, no grist for the mill
And winter's are hard over Poverty Hill

@political @poor
filename[ POVERHIL
SF
===DOCUMENT BOUNDARY