It was seven in the morning and already it was eighty-five degrees. Mama said she bet that it would reach a hundred. Cause there wasn't any breeze papa had a cotton sack headed for a field.
Standing alone at an old country crossroad. Wondering which way will lead me to home. Ever so weary from chasing a dream. Thinking of Mary sweet Mary and the miles in between.
Once in my youth, I stood on this mountain. And planted some pines in the sand. Every day I looked their way. But just couldn't understand. . Why they never grew like I thought they should do.