Poverty Hill

They [C]come in their summery dresses and jackets so [Bm]fine,
the [C]rich folks who measure success with a big dollar [Bm]sign.
They [C]gaze with delight at the rocks and the scraggly [Bm]pines.
They [C]come in the Spring and they [Bm]stay 'til the Fall
On [C]Paradise Mountain [Bm]away from it [D]all.

[C]Stubble and [D]stone make a [C]hard row to [D]hoe.
What [C]little will [D]grow, the [C]drought will [D]kill.
The [C]summer folks call it Paradise [D]Mountain
but [C]we call it Poverty [D]Hill.

They [C]say we have beautiful faces as grainy as [Bm]wood.
And, they'd [C]like to live here of all places if only they [Bm]could.
Well, we [C]don't get these wood, grainy faces from livin' too [Bm]good.
It's the [C]rocks and the sun and [Bm]dust and the heat.
It's [C]too much of work and too [Bm]little to [D]eat.

(Chorus)

They [C]pack and say what a pity that they have to [Bm]go.
They [C]say that Old Smokey's so pretty all covered with [Bm]snow,
But [C]how we get through the winter they never will [Bm]know.
No [C]lard for the pantry. No [Bm]grist for the meal
And [C]winter's are cold over [Bm]Poverty [D]Hill.

(Chorus)
Yes, [C]we call it Poverty [D]Hill.