intro: A ....... A F#m D E A A F#m It must be that time of year D E I'm feeling that pull again A F#m I've got to get away from here D E and back to where my feet can stand A F#m Back to where the trees grow tall D E and ain't a sound for miles around A F#m Except for the distant call D E A of that lonely coyote's howl D A Life's mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel E A and I leave the paved road far behind A F#m Every breath I breathe is one step closer to me D E A easing my worried mind 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