Burlap born the 1st of August
Fire so hot it felt, burned like hell
She said as she wiped her brow
Nothing good grows here in this heat
Burlap sacks burned like wildfires in the field
Scratched my skin till raw, but I liked it
Smelled of sage and straw
Sunflower and giant bees buzzed
She was born the first of August
Nothing good grows here in this heat
Except me I was born the first of August
Full of fire