They come in their summery dresses and jackets so fine   The rich folks who measure success with a big dollar sign   They gaze with delight with the rocks and the scraggly pines   The come in the Spring and they stay 'til the Fall   On Paradise Mountain away from it all      Stubble and stone make a hard row to how   What little will grow, the drought will kill   The summer folks call it Paradise Mountain   But we call it Poverty Hill      They say we have beautiful faces as grainy as wood   Yeah, they'd like to live here of all places if only they could   Well, we don't get those wood, grainy faces from livin' too good   It's the rocks and the dust and sun and the heat   It's too much of work and too little to eat      Stubble and stone make a hard row to how   What little will grow, the drought will kill   The summer folks call it Paradise Mountain   But we call it Poverty Hill      They pack and they say what a pity that they have to go   They say that Old Smokey's so pretty all covered with snow   But how we get through the winter they never will know   No lard for the pantry, no grist for the meal   And winter's are cold over Poverty Hill      Stubble and stone make a hard row to how   What little will grow, the drought will kill   The summer folks call it Paradise Mountain   But we call it Poverty Hill      Yes, we call it Poverty Hill