He was an old country singer; sparks flew from his fingers
as he stood behind a chicken wire cage,
and the songs he was singinâ, they were soulful and honest,
but the frat boys booed him off of the stage.
I bought him a drink and sat down at his table.
He said, âboy, if I look tired, I amâ¦
I drove four-hundred miles just to play for the tip jar,
and nobody here gives a damn.â
CHORUS:
âIâve spent my life out on some lonesome highway
dead set on chasinâ a dream.
There was a time when this road led somewhere,
but now Iâm just out here
burninâ gasoline.â
Well, we drank a few more and he talked about the old days
when he wrote songs for Conway and Merle.
He said, âson, my tunes were the heart of country music,
but now itâs a whole different world.â
I said, âhereâs to the good ones,â and we turned up our bottles
as the bar owner walked through the crowd.
He said, âitâs gettinâ late, and you havenât played your last set,â
and the old man said, âoh, yes I have.â
REPEAT CHORUS