This is a story about the lady that raised me. This is a story about the lady that raised me. She was born in a log cabin in the backwoods of Blackwood, Mississippi. She drank moonshine, chewed tobacco, raised 13 children all by herself. Never looked much like the lady. You see, she was too busy providing and raising her baby. Spent her evenings sitting in a rocking chair. Never had much of nothing, but was always willing to share. Talking about my, talking about my, yeah. Education, she didn't have none. Never had a sick day in her life. Stronger than any two good men. You better believe it, oh yes she was. Now looky here. My papa died, mama put her love on the shelf. Yes she did. She swore up and down on the good book. She wouldn't love nobody else. Made sure that we were in church every Sunday. Papa would have wanted it that way. That's what she'd always say. Talking about my, talking about my, yeah. Talking about the lady that raised me. Talking about my, yeah. Ow! Every once in a while when Ma would get depressed. She'd go to the closet and get Pa's guitar. Sit herself down in a rocking chair. Start humming and strumming. Ha, ha, yeah. Looky here, y'all. That was Ma's way of letting off steam. In plain old English we could say that Ma was doing her thing. Every once in a while she'd shout, whoa! Let it all hang out. My, talking about my, yeah. My, talking about my, yeah. Talking about the lady that raised me. Talking about my, yeah.