I’m dreaming tonight, I’m living back home.
Right!
Take me back to a south Tallahassee.
Down cross the bridge to my sweet sassafras-y.
Can’t stand up on my feet in the city.
Gotta get back to the real nitty gritty.
Yes, sir. No, sir.
Don’t come close to my
home, sweet home.
Can’t catch no dose
of my hot tail poontang sweetheart.
Sweathog ready to make a silk purse
from a J. Paul Getty and his ear
with her face in her beer.
Home, sweet home.
Get out in the field;
put the mule in the stable.
Ma’, she’s a cookin’,
put the eats on the table.
Hate’s in the city
and my love’s in the meadow.
Hands on the plow
and my feet in the ghetto.
Stand up, sit down.
Don’t do nothing,
It ain’t no good when the boss-man
stuffin’ down their throats
for paper notes
and their babies cry
while cities lie at their feet
when you’re rockin’ the street.
Home, sweet home.
Mama, take me home, sweet home.
I was the last child.
I’m just a punk in the street.