Farmhouse By the Racetrack
A town, deep down in Georgia,
below the mountains and hills.
So tiny, only a few lived there.
Then came the new saw mills.
Money rolled in from timber sales.
Forest gave way to farmland.
Where deer once pranced, corn now grew.
Planted by rough and strong hands.
Years before, a farmer built,
a small house to call his home.
He worked on it day and night.
Now a house he could call his own.
The money men rolled into town,
wanting to buy up all the lumber.
The farmer said, you can buy my trees,
the dollar amount will be a big number.
My home is not to be touched.
Cut only the trees you see.
I have a plan, don't you know.
A racetrack where there once was trees.
My dream is to see the cars race.
To me, the farm life is boring,
I've waited all my life for this.
I can't wait to hear engines roaring.
All the trees were cut down.
A racetrack carved out in their place.
All he wanted, was to be in his home,
stay comfy, and watch the cars race.
The races went on for years.
His track, the only one around.
But there came a time when others saw,
a much better use for his ground.
They came to take his home.
They came to take his track.
The farmer went for his gun.
They came to take it all back.
The farmer died that day.
Killed defending his place.
He only wanted to be in his home
stay comfy, and watch the cars race.
R. S. Morris
