Текст пісні
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do-do
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do
I'm wealthy in white oak, persimmon, and poke
And we weather every season, some would call us hill folk
From Fort Smith to Flippen, all these rocks that I know
And I haunt every back road, no one knows where I go
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do-do
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do
The burrs and the brambles tear your clothes at the seams
So we speak to our snakes and drink deep from our streams
There's rain on some tin roof in Winslow I know
So hurry back from Missouri where the cold waters flow
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do-do
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do
Some morning in the summer from these hills I might roam
Try to live for a wage, trade the traffic for home
But I'll always be feral, I'll never bear the yoke
I'm a careworn, ridge-runnin', and whistlin' hill folk
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do-do
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do-do
Do-do, do, do
Do, do, do
Do, do, do, oh