Old hats, cow pats
Alan Jackson on the radio
I played Nirvana on the piano

I ran around
in thunderstorms in the countryside
Getting XP as the modems fried

My bro looked up
To high school heros mowing grass
I played the pipe organ in my khaki slacks

And now although
I've found a place in the big city
I don't feel like I've found my way

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I believe it's time to write my country song
The kind that you sing along
About the days that are long long gone away

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Hard work and church
is what the old boy told me
I stole the words and added the blastphemy

I date like a
lawyer's interrogation
if that don't scare 'em away wait 'til I mention

that my dream has been
To live in the town I was raised in
And die on the farm I was born on

I know I'll find
someone who thinks I'm not cur-ra-zy
I just hope it's before my grave

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I believe it's time to write my country song
The kind that you sing along
About the days that are long long gone away
Or the future that I will win back some day

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Roosters, chickens
And solar-powered pneumatic doors
Electric cars by the pullin' horse

New York to LA
to evenings spent at Wolff's lake
kids enrolled at Maries R-1 after their Tokyo stay

I will have a
guilt of inauthenticity
I hope they'll let me in anyway

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I believe it's time to write my country song
The kind that you sing along
About the days that are long long gone away
Or the future that I will win back some day