The Stories They Tell

Old pontiacs in the junkyard,

angry German shepherd pulling on a chain lookin’ at me. 

Ain’t no place for us, but here we are. 

After the sun sets, punk kids show up with packs of beer and dads’ stolen whiskey. 

Throw a loaded steak to the dog and climb right over the link fence. 

Bonfires starting, small town drama just like the big city. 

Most got no way out, boys are playing king of the castle in a rusted truck bed without a motor.

It’s way south down here, girls afraid to mirror their mothers, so they fight instead. 

Nothin’ happens that you don’t hear about on Monday. 

They say the only luck you gonna find is the luck you make,

so I bought us a couple new tires and a cheap road map.

Put my hair up, threw my shoulders back. 

Guess I’ll be one of those stories they pass around at the diner in the morning,

while Old Man Graves complains about his missin’ whiskey. 

My luck is waitin for me to catch up.

Share: