what will the season yield
the dusty peanut fields
buried under the soil
are the workers who toiled
my history and shame
down below the james

what smoke thin ghost is want
among these tin roof haunts
endless trains of coal
pass by the old swimming hole
the black water in my veins
down below the james

to those who calls his name
a southern god lays claim
I woke as the smoke rose higher
I was nailed to a cross of fire
but I would not take the blame
down below the james

andy hill
how was he killed
by a god of wrath
thy rod and thy staff
will not ease the pain
down below the james

mr and mrs rose
no one really knows
in heaven or in hell
where their memories dwell
in the ghost of a name
down below the james

© 1982 Brian Rose