Well, I'm admitting I was drifting. When I came into your harbor. But I feel my spirits lifting. Like a wind just off the starboard bow. . Now, I know I swore I would love no more.
Memories of East Texas. And those piney green, rolling hills. Covered in the springtime. With golden daffodils. . Rowing on Sandy lake come April. Harvesting hay in June.
Upshur County's drier than an empty bottle. Since the Mormon's come to town. And to run out of beer means a run to Gladewater. Highway 79 thirty miles on down.