Dirt Track

I’ve been hearing things at night in this big old house
It ain’t just the pistols, and the frogs, and trains
It’s a rumbling sound, rising like red-clay clouds
From the ghosts of the Alabama Gang

Bubba, it’s been too long
Since you sang it for the sake of the song
Some things, once you sell them, you can’t buy back
So I’m going to keep on working—keep it on the dirt track
Keep on working—keep it on the dirt track

Daddy’d watch them spit dirt from the hood of his Chevelle
Marshall Tucker on the radio:
Good old boys turning junk into wheels of blazing fire
Squeezing glory out of three rusty chords

Bubba, it’s been too long
Since you sang it for the sake of the song
Some things, once you sell them, you can’t buy back
So I’m going to keep on working—keep it on the dirt track
Keep on working—keep it on the dirt track

Running that oval will teach you that
Where you start is where you’ll wind up at
But, while the cameras were rolling
And the crowds were growing
They went and tore the old dirt track down
Keep on working—keep it on the dirt track