Muddy, slick banks of muddy little creeks,
That run into a muddy, mighty river.
Cotton boils and cattle farms,
Brown arms and red necks.
Summer from May to November,
Autumn that rolls right into Spring.
Speakin’ slow and movin’ slow,
Even when we think quickly.
Katydids and crickets and frogs,
Playin’ a nightly lullaby,
While mosquitoes and gnats,
Chase us in from our play.
Mammaw’s pimento and cheese,
Don’t forget Momma,
And that chicken and spaghetti.
And green, green trees.
Humidity to cut with a knife,
And triple digit summers.
Home is, and will always be,
Sweet, sweet, South Mississippi.
Where ever I go, whatever I do,
She’ll still be here, for me to come back to.