My momma always did say those bradford pears,

Smelled like the dead,

Somethin’ ‘bout a southern curse.

 

Ain’t nothin’ lonelier bein’ inside these pine walls,

Everybody knows you,

And all your family secrets.

 

“Sweet Southern Comfort,”

That’s what them outsiders call it.

But they don’t it’s all a facade,

They don’t know what we hide.

 

The bodies in the graveyard ain’t the only ones.

 

The devil drinks from the creek,

The cotton fields are watered with blood,

And the twisted oaks hold out ropes,

Waiting for a neck to snap.

 

The mountain lions hide up in the limbs,

And scream the worst sound you’ll ever hear.

Legend has it, 

They mock those whose bones will never be found.

 

We go to church,

Read the good book,

Bless our meals,

And pray we make it out of this country hell,

And to the pearly gates of heaven.

 

But even the pastor’s left his wife,

For a girl who wears her hair in pigtails,

And skips down the road hummin',

We All Fall Down