| Atlanta’s a distant memory
|
| Montgomery a recent blur
|
| And Tulsa burns on the desert floor
|
| Like a signal fire
|
| I got Willie on the radio
|
| A dozen things on my mind
|
| And number one is fleshing out
|
| These dreams of mine
|
| I’ve got 200 more miles of rain asphalt in line
|
| Before I sleep
|
| But there’ll be no warm sheets or welcoming arms
|
| To fall into tonight
|
| In Nashville there is a lighter
|
| In a case for all to see
|
| It speaks of dreams and heartaches
|
| Left unsung
|
| And in the corner stands a guitar and
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| Lonesome words scrawled in a drunken hand
|
| I don’t travel past, travel hard before
|
| And I’m beginning to understand
|
| That I’ve got 200 more miles of rain asphalt in line
|
| Before I sleep
|
| But there’ll be no warm sheets or welcoming arms
|
| To fall into tonight
|
| They say that I am crazy
|
| My life wasting on this road
|
| That time will find my dreams
|
| Scared or dead and cold
|
| But I heard there is a light
|
| Drawing me to reach an end
|
| And when I reach there, I’ll turn back
|
| And you and I can begin again
|
| I’ve got 200 more miles of rain asphalt in line
|
| Before I sleep
|
| But there’ll be no warm sheets or welcoming arms
|
| To fall into tonight
|
| I’ve got 200 more miles of rain asphalt in line
|
| Before I sleep
|
| But I wouldn’t trade all your golden tomorrows
|
| For one hour of this night
|
| Atlanta’s a distant memory
|
| Montgomery a recent birth
|
| And Tulsa burns on the desert floor
|
| Like a signal fire |