William Elliott Whitmore - Everything gets gone

I w^Aas born in these woods, and these hills are m^Ey home And^A the fields will be ready when the spring ti^Eme comes B^C#minut I'm j^Aust here for a littl^Ee while And^A I'm just here for a littl^Ee while Lik^B5e a tree by ^C#5the river I'm holding^A on ^EBut e^Averythi^Eng get go^Ane ^EBut ever^A7ything get go^Ene

On^A a gravel road, bout a mi^Ele down Th^Aere's and old farm house with a fence a^Eround Th^Ae windows are broken the roof is falli^Eng in It^As never going to be a home a^Egain L^B5ike shutters in ^C#5the wind I'm holding^A on ^EBut ev^Aerything ^Egets g^Aone ^EBut every^A7thing gets g^Eone

Th^Aese grave stones are the ones that were he^Ere before Th^Aey're never going to live or love any^Emore We^Are just here for a little wh^Eile W^Aere just here for a little w^Ehile L^B5ike a deathbed m^C#5an that cant^A hold on E^Everythin^A7g gets g^Eone E^Everythin^A7g gets g^Eone E^Everythin^A7g gets g^Eone E^Everythin^A7g gets g^Eone