| The traveler and the sleeper start to seem the same to me |
| When tomorrow doesn’t offer any guarantee |
| A flip of fate can send a man with concrete in his shoes |
| Down the track just singing those Jimmy Rodgers blues |
| And the man who looks over at the picket fence to scoff |
| Becomes the thing he hated the day the wheels comes off |
| ‘Cause when the jobs are gone and the gas is gone |
| And they groundd all the planes |
| No promise of tomorrow |
| Wll that makes us all the same |
| Romanticize your ramblin', and the way you up and leave |
| Let the cowboy run against the wind, it’s only make believe |
| Set your hopes on things eternal, set your eyes on things above |
| And sit down on the front porch with the people that you love |
| ‘Cause you can’t take it with you |
| Ah, what a cryin' shame |
| Six figures, six feet under |
| That’s what makes us all the same |
| The traveler and the sleeper, the sinner and the saint |
| The rich man and the poor man, all subjected to fate |
| You can’t reason with the clock hands |
| You can’t reason with the grave |
| The Reaper and the Maker |
| Well that makes us all the same |
| All the same, all the the same |
| All the same, same, same |
| The Reaper and the Maker |
| Well that makes us all the same |
| All the same, all the the same |
| All the same, same, same |
| The Reaper and the Maker |
| Well that makes us all the same |
| The moths ate up my rhinestone suit and the El Dorado’s rusted |
| Someone stole my mandolin when the windows all got busted |
| Made me reevaluate what I really trusted |
| The moths ate up my rhinestone suit and the El Dorado’s rusted |