The tracks run hot as hell this time of day
That whistle hollers loud as can be
Men yank down on straw hats to look away
Her Cotton dress teases him with its sway
Golden locks trickle down like sweet honey
The tracks run hot as hell this time of day
Merle swigs moonshine ready to make his play
Her slow hums fill him with dangerous glee
Men yank down on straw hats to stare away
She squats in stifled earth near the dank bay
He sparks at her pale, dirt covered knees
The tracks run hot as hell this time of day
Her wholesome milky charm he will betray
Pin her skirts against the warted oak tree
Men yank down their straw hats and look away
Hollow and beaten once Merle’s had his way
Now a saddened bitter mother of three
The tracks run hot as hell this time of day
Men yank down on straw brims to look away
