Hey now don't you fret I'll be home before, before the sky
has turned a paler shade than my left thigh
Now the sun has only just gone down above this town
and as I'm walking the sunset burns the ground
Trash cans in the yards along these roads, along these roads
and you're down at the liquor and lotto store
Houses turned to factories as we drove along these roads, along these roads
with winding mountain streams and country roads
Garbage in the yard says we were here, we were here
In 1844, 1913
No one told me 25 would feel quite like that
I's salt breeze on trees, sand under my toes
I have never sweat the little things quite like this
Cause honey it's the little things I miss

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