On a dusty Sunday morning
When the heat rose from the road
The Spanish moss hung from the limbs
Of that old mighty oak

A few old men played checkers
Outside on the front porch
While Rita's bare feet stirred the dust
As she played on her stick horse

Jill Clayborne talked about her
On the way to church one day
Called her poor white trash
And never thought to stop and pray

For a taunted, laughed-at girl
Who grew to lure the men
Rita's gift from heaven
Was a body built for sin

And the years would bring a woman
Both child-like and serene
To wander in the city
And walk the night streets

No one ever asked me
What I thought about the girl
Just told me what they thought they knew
About her troubled world

When word came round how she was found
I fell down on my knees
I'm the one who took her from
Her childhood on the streets

On another Sunday morning
And older wiser man
Stares out from the front porch
Recalling way back when
Rita was a young girl
Not yet condemned
For her gift from heaven
A body built for sin