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intro: A ....... A F#M D E A
AIt must be that time of year F#M I'm Dfeeling that pull agaiEn AI've got to get away from here F#M and backD to where my feet can stand E ABack to where the trees grow tall F#M and ain'Dt a sound for miles around E AExcept for the distant call F#M of thatD lonely coyote's howl E A
DLife's mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel A and I leave thEe paved road far behind A AEvery breath I breathe is one step closer to me F#M easinDg my worried mind E A
Repeat same pattern Way back in the sticks is where I feel alive in my rusty old '66 that won't even go fifty five Nothing can compare to the joy that I've found every time I go back there to my own spiritual ground I'll make a quart of sweet corn whiskey from ten gallons of sour mash I'll turn a pile of firewood into a pile of sky grey ash If there's anything left inside me that remembers what it's like to feel that cold rain falling on the top of my head and the mud beneath my heels