I'm a fair to middling man
And these are cotton picking hands
I'm a fair to middling man
And these are cotton picking hands

My woman asks for little
And nothing she demands
Except to hold these cotton picking hands

The bloom is white and then it's red
Then it falls to leave a bowl instead
The leaves fall and the field is white
We pick the pods from dawn to night

My woman cooks and sweeps the yard
And that old rug board is rough and hard
Her face is pretty though it's tanned
And I love those cotton picking hands