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Arkansas

Höfundur lags: Damon Black Flytjandi: the Wilburn Brothers Sent inn af: Anonymous

[C]Though the brambles took the cabin I was born in
And the [Am]briers have claimed the fields I used to [C]plow
There´s a [F]yearning in my heart to be [C]going
To that 40 acre [G7]patch God sowed in [C]Stroud

Arkan[Am]sas are your rivers still [C]flowing
Is your cotton [F]growing white as [G7]snow   
Are the [F]squirrels still a barking up on [C]Old Crowleys Ridge
Has the [F]girl I was sparking gone and [C]burned another [Am]bridge
Arkan[C]sas  


I have known the troubles I was born to know
I have [Am]wanted things a poor mans born to [C]want
And in [F]all my dreams and memories I go [C]running
Through the fields of Arkan[G7]sas from which I [C]sprung

Arkan[Am]sas are your rivers still [C]flowing
Is your cotton [F]growing white as [G7]snow   
Do the [F]young men still fiddle with the [C]thought of growing rich
And [F]slowly turn to old folks sitting [C]whittling on a [Am]stick
Arkan[C]sas  


Though the brambles took the cabin I was born in
And the briers have claimed the fields I used to plow
There´s a yearning in my heart to be going
To that 40 acre patch God sowed in Stroud

Arkansas are your rivers still flowing
Is your cotton growing white as snow
Are the squirrels still a barking up on Old Crowleys Ridge
Has the girl I was sparking gone and burned another bridge
Arkansas

I have known the troubles I was born to know
I have wanted things a poor mans born to want
And in all my dreams and memories I go running
Through the fields of Arkansas from which I sprung

Arkansas are your rivers still flowing
Is your cotton growing white as snow
Do the young men still fiddle with the thought of growing rich
And slowly turn to old folks sitting whittling on a stick
Arkansas

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