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I left the field one evening, my fingers so cold and sore |
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From fair to middlin' cotton, three hundred pounds or more |
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Jim McCann was still pickin' straddle in the row |
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The sun began to sinkin' and the wind began to blow |
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He was bound to get four hundred, a draggin' a twelve foot sack |
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I hollered out, "Jim, come weight it" but I only saw his back |
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So I went on home to supper and I gathered around my kin |
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I was thinkin' of Jim out there pickin', with winter settin' in |
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Next morning the air was freezin', the snow was nine feet deep |
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I jerked on my long red handles and I left my kids asleep |
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I got myself a shovel and went to where I seen Jim go |
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And commenced to a diggin' for him at the other end of his row |
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I found his body frozen and I took him in to thaw |
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I dragged in his sack and I weighed it and I added Jim's marks that I saw |
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The total was over four hundred so he'd picked more than he'd bet |
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Of fair to middlin' cotton, but Jim ain't thawed out yet |