When a horse-man passes, the soldiers have a rule To cry out their loudest, 'Mister, where's your mule?' But another custom, enchanting-er than these Is wearing out your grinders, eating goober peas.
Just before the battle, the General hears a row He says 'The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now.' He looks down the roadway and what d'you think he sees? The Georgia Militia cracking goober peas.
I think my song has lasted just about enough. The subject's interesting but the rhymes are mighty rough. I wish the war was over so free from rags and fleas We'd kiss our wives and sweethearts, say good-bye to goober peas.