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Home from Away
Freedom introduced himself while I was hanging clothes upon the line.
I was sitting there on 66, I was learning how to read the signs.
I was jotting down some notes for to write down in my little tome.
I was getting far away from it all just to find that place called home.
Freedom shook my hand. It was clearly my first time.
He said, “Don’t be nervous, boy, there’s to life than writing down your little rhymes.
You’ve come so far since your passage from Knoxville right through Rome.
Getting far away, sometimes, is the only way to make it home.”
Yeah this girl in Austin, the way she worked with fire was like nothing else.
And that old lady’s t-shirt in El Paso said, “Best in the World, Them Alabama Girls.”
And the girl that was a leaver, it was only because she was looking for somewhere to stay.
“Well, if all goes right,” said Freedom, “they’re gonna make it home today.”
I offered him some coffee, sometimes you got to giddyup to settle down.
He took it black with 19 sugars that explained the way his legs jittered around.
He drank it one gulp, and said, “Thank you for this place here in your little poem.
But the blind wife she’s a’waiting, man, I’ll see you if you ever make it home.”
By now my clothes were dry. I folded them and rolled them up like some dough.
My 10-wheeled horse, the Greyhound Bus, started revving before I had a chance to breathe out, “Whoa!”
I saddled up. The sun was setting. Man, it was time for me to roam.
I was riding far away from it all just to find that place called home.
I was gettin’ far away from it all just to find that place called home.
I was gettin’ far away just to find that place called home.
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