It was a low-down, dirty water, dusty kind of day,
That kind of morning where the dogs all settled under the porch by the fish camp on the lake,
Where the turtles sat on old logs short then rolled down into the cool water deep,
The pond so still you could see the cypress weep,
And the cottonmouth swam about the bank real slow looking for a place to rest and stay.
Everything was quiet and the air was real still,
When the cicada began to sing,
And an ole hound dog howled across the water as the church bells in town began to ring,
The wind then stirred, and the frogs joined the chorus as the crickets began to chirp,
The cattails cotton causing a flurry of white as a coolness settled to earth,
A distant rumble could be heard far off as the dark black clouds did gather and whirl,
And the scent of rain from the western winds brought a cool light breeze upon the world.
Now, this is the south on a summer day,
The kind of place where the dragonflies play,
A place where horseflies buzz around then leave,
And old men whittle while they sit each and every day,
And cold sweet tea sits upon a TV tray,
Where momma in her apron pinches butter beans while watching the children play.
This is the south on a summer day,
A place where nothing matters on this hot sunny day,
A place we love and speak of as we say,
A place called home
And you’re welcomed to stay.