A ....... A F#m D E A A F#m It must be that time of year D E I'm feeling that pull again A F#m I've got to get away from here D E and back to where my feet can stand A F#m Back to where the trees grow tall D E and ain't a sound for miles around A F#m Except for the distant call D E A of that lonely coyote's howl
D A Life's mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel E A and I leave the paved road far behind A F#m Every breath I breathe is one step closer to me D E A 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
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