Take me back to dear ol' Dixie,
That's the only li'l ol' place for li'l ol' me.
Old times there are not forgotten,
Whuppin' slaves and sellin' cotton,
And waitin' for the Robert E. Lee.
(It was never there on time.)
Where pellagra makes you scrawny,
And the honeysuckle clutters up the vine.1
I really am a-fixin'
To go home and start a-mixin'
Down below that Mason-Dixon line.
How I love ya, how I love ya,
My dear ol' poll tax.
Back to the arms of my dear ol' Mammy,
Her cookin's lousy and her hands are clammy,
But what the hell, it's home.
Jes' give me a ham hock and a grit of hominy.
I want to be a Dixie pixie
And eat corn pone3 till it's comin' outta my ears.4
I want to talk with Southern gentlemen
And put that white sheet on again,5
I ain't seen one good lynchin' in years.
Where the laws are medieval,
Is callin' me to come and nevermore roam.
I want to go back to the Southland,
That "y'all" and "shet-ma-mouth" land,
Be it ever so decadent,
There's no place like home.