You’re an old man working at the foot of the mountain.
Got the pedal down though you know you’ll never make it on time.
Been down so many roads that you haven’t ben counting.
But you know where you’re going, hope an honest man can survive.

Born in Fifty Five to the highway town of grand junction.
Your Momma was a winner and your Pappa had a wandering eye.
They couldn’t keep you home though you knew that they always loved you.
It was Seventy Three, you were heavenly bound and you waived them goodbye.

Hitched a ride that night and headed east into Nebraska.
Made a bed of stars sleeping covered up out in the night.
Met a pretty girl who took you home to Saint Louis.
The Mississippi river was the sight of the time of your life.

But time goes by when you’re walking the open highway.
Your eyes never shut and your gut never found the prize.
It was Eighty Five in a diner outside of Milwaukee.
On a pay phone your Pappa said that you Momma had died.

You made a stupid move, getting drunk in Green Bay Wisconsin.
They picked you up like a dead man out in the night.
The cop was willing and the blood was spilling,
and they carried you off instead of walking away from the fight.

Just one year in the state of Minnesota.
You kept your word and served your time.
Not a day goes by that you don’t miss that year,
your Momma and your Pappa and not getting to say goodbye.

Now you’re an old man working at the foot of the mountain.
Going home ain’t home when you know that you’ve missed your time.
But life ain’t bad out in Livingston, Montana.
When you know where you’re going even a broken man can survive.