I am from sweet tea and collard greens,
from pecan pie and chili beans,
warm campfires and boot-cut jeans.
Of spit-shine clean and milking machines is where I'm from.

I'm from the “Wear your best clothes to church on Sundays,”
to knowin' how to kick back on the fun days,
to having a blood-red tan from the sun's rays.
Of spending all day gatherin' bales of hay is where I'm from.

I am from the afternoons sat up in Ole Smith's oak,
to the evenings listening to the bullfrogs croak,
to the early morning's meal of a freshly fried yolk.
Of a spittin' game and shotgun smoke is where I'm from.

I am from an opening line with some old-fashioned twang,
to the mountains and plains where MLK's freedom rang,
to the endless summers that go out with a bang.
Of a four-wheelin' deer huntin' gang is where I'm from.

Alas, the sun now sets over yonder hill.
Farmer John sets home from his laboring mill.
The big open world seems to sit still.
Because where I'm from, this is God's will.