He has a girl who has flaxen hair
My woman has hair of gray
I have a woman who wakes up at dawn
His girl can sleep through the day

His girl has hands soothed with perfumes sweet
She has lips soft and pink
My woman’s lips burn in midday sun
My woman’s hands—black like ink

He can make music to please his girl
Night comes I’m tired and beat
He can make notes, make her heart beat fast
Night comes I want off my feet

Maybe if I don’t pick cotton so fast
Maybe I’d sing pretty too
Sing to my woman with her hair of gray
Croon softly, Baby it’s you.


 = Joan Grant