My grandmother wrote poetry that she rarely let other people read
And the words were sweet, though they never did meet with critical acclaim
But the ones who read it, they often said, "This ought to be published, this ought to be read,"
But she would not agree, and they said it was a shame…

That the world could continue to turn, unaware and unconcerned
And never even know it, that she was a poet…poet in her own time

From the time she was a gangly girl her books took her off to another world
Of Ivanhoe, Henry David Thoreau and Edgar Allan Poe
But in Mississippi, people don't generally read; they just look at pictures in magazines
So it's not a surprise that she kept to herself and spent her time alone

And she did pretty well in school, she went to teacher's college too
The teachers didn't know it: my grandma was a poet…a poet in her own time

Well, she met and she married a railroad man
She didn't do much writing then, but his work made them travel about
"Southern Serves the South"
And the great depression, it set on in like a cold, unexpected northern wind
He forgot to come home one day and she was left with three kids to raise

And then there was nothing else a woman could do except draw her paycheque teaching school
And the pupils didn't know it, but teacher was a poet…a poet in her own time

Now my grandmother lies in a crumpled bed, and at night she hears voices in her head
And the family worries in the whispering dark if she's got her religion right
It's a hardening of the arteries, it's a softening of the mind
I mean to go and see her, but I cannot ever seem to find the time

And at the nurse's station at night, they work crossword puzzle by the switchboard light
And the nurses don't know it: grandma was a poet…a poet in her own time
Yeah, the nurses don't know it: my grandma is a poet…a poet in her own time