Greyhound station on Christmas Eve, I was carrying a present for you,
Wrapped up in the classifieds, sitting between my shoes.
Two whole years, two whole years, of wondering how you have changed,
You were always good at getting old.
Highway dreamers, they run dry.
Small town sleepers, they give up.
Neon lights turn into fog, I know I belong,
Won’t somebody tell me how to get old.
Got my heart, I got my songs and I’ve got a girl I can trust,
The TV set and my guitar turn me off.
But as I get older the fire smolders, till I light it up again,
I know its just a matter of time until it rains.
Highway dreamers, they run dry.
Small town sleepers, they give up.
Neon lights turn into fog, I know I belong,
Won’t somebody tell me how to get old.
Carolina don’t you want to bide your time, California is flying by.
Through a cold, cold April, then a lukewarm summer,
I guess I never the left the state you left me in.
Highway dreamers, they run dry.
Small town sleepers, they give up.
Neon lights turn into fog, I know I belong,
Won’t somebody tell me how to get old.
Greyhound station on Christmas Eve, I was carrying a letter for you,
Wrapped up in my confidence, but I’m shaking in these shoes.
Rolling years and worn out fears, and everybody gets by,
Everybody’s got a story to tell, I wonder what will be mine.
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