intro:
.......
It must be that time of year
I m feeling that pull again
I ve got to get away from here
and back to where my feet can stand
Back to where the trees grow tall
and ain t a sound for miles around
Except for the distant call
of that lonely coyote s howl
Life s mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel
and I leave the paved road far behind
Every breath I breathe is one step closer to me
easing my worried mind
Repeat same pattern
Way back in the sticks
is where I feel alive
in my rusty old 66
that won t even go fifty five
Nothing can compare
to the joy that I ve found
every time I go back there
to my own spiritual ground
I ll make a quart of sweet corn whiskey
from ten gallons of sour mash
I ll turn a pile of firewood
into a pile of sky grey ash
If there s anything left inside me
that remembers what it s like to feel
that cold rain falling on the top of my head
and the mud beneath my heels