A lifetime of pickin'
All that's it's getting me
Is older and alone
Chasing my dreams
Left me frayed at the seams
Faded, like an old pair of jeans
I have not given
One thought to living
Past my baby, right
The ink is so dried
In the middle oldies died
What the hells gonna get me through the night?
So where do the song writers go?
The gypsies and the drifters
When there ain't no more shows
What do the song writers do
When they can't play for you
When I can't play for you
A full tank of gas
And a half empty glass
Whiskey barrels are chilled
A head full of rhymes
And a woman from time to time
Is all I need
To help get me through
My green eyes turn gray
Hollowed with age
And my hair is this as the frost
Not a seed that I've sewn
And I die alone
Then lord, ill know the cost
So where do the song writers go?
The gypsies and the drifters
When there ain't no more shows
What do the song writers do
When they can't play for you
When I can't play for you
So where do the song writers go?
The gypsies and the drifters
When there ain't no more shows
What do the song writers do
When they can't play for you
When I can't play for you
So where do the song writers go?
The gypsies and the drifters
When there ain't no more shows
What do the song writers do
When they can't play for you
When I can't play for you