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       Sometimes a little friendly town will gain a lot of fame,

       So listen and I’ll tell you how Gleason got her name.

       In the last days of September just before the crack of dawn,

       You’d finish up your breakfast and sit and stretch and yawn.


       You’d heard of farmers talking ‘bout a super beauty yield,

       And your thoughts would turn to grabblin’ in a sweet potatoe field.

       You’d get four bits or six bits for working one long day,

       But grabblin’ sweet potatoes was, a little extra pay.


       People all were in a happy mood at every harvest season,

       And business was a bustlin’ in the little town of Gleason.

       When money was real hard to get and pocket books were down,

       Folks from all around West Tennessee would head for "Tater Town".


       In the spring you’d pull them tater slips and ship them far and wide,

       In the fall you’d grabble taters with a hamper by your side.

       Cooks serve them up with everything like chicken, steak and ham,

       A great big juicy "Nancy Hall" or "Porta Rican Yam".


       Tennessee is mighty proud to have some folks around,

       Who still raise slips and taters in a place called "Tater Town".

       You never know what twist of fate will bring prestige or fame,

       God made the sweet potatoe, which gave "Tater Town" her name.

Poem Provided Courtesy of Joyce Wray - Gleason, Tennessee

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