Under the Arkansas moon
scent of magnolia in the air
I have seen the hanging tree
the whipping tree
and the wishing tree as well
In the Piney Woods' dark hours
see neon twinkles of lightning bugs
I've heard the Bear Cat's far off cry
sound like a hungry baby's wail
the torment scream of a dying slave
or echos of lovers mourning loss
Way back down home
rich black dirt fertile and warm
hide the bones,teeth and tears
Earth blood sanctified, watered by sweat
of whip driven cotton pickers
and sharecropping growers of corn
it ain't quite that way no more
the old law has gone away
and it ain't coming back
cause every house has a rifle
a pistol and a shotgun
and a memory
of the whipping tree
and the hanging tree
and wishes are just fantasy
desires of little children
underneath that Arkansas moon
way back down home.
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