| January back in fifty-five we rode a greyhound bus through the Georgia midnight
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| Grandpa was sleeping and the winter sky was clear
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| We hit a bump and his head jerked back a little and he mumbled something
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| He woke up smiling but his eyes were bright with tears
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| He said I dreamed I was back on the farm
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| Twenty years have passed boy but the memory still reminds me
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| Wild flowers in the mason jar
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| He told me those old stories bout that one room cabin in Kentucky
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| The smell of rain and the feel of the warm earth in his hands
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| He slowly turned and stared outside his face was mirrored in the window
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| And his reflections flew across the moonlight land
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| And he dreamed he was back on the farm
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| He tilts his head and listens to the early sounds of morning
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| Wild flowers in a mason jar
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| An old man and an eight year old boy rolling down that midnight highway
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| Warm Kentucky mem’ries from a winter Georgia night
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| I started drifting off and grandpa tucked his coat around me
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| I think I tried to smile as I slowly closed my eyes
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| And I dreamed I was with him on the farm
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| Grandpa i can hear the evening wind out in the tall corn
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| Wild flowers in a mason jar
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| Wild flowers in a mason jar and the bus rolled through the night |