I have sweet memories of a far-off place,
Filled with crazy people and beautiful landscapes.
I have feelings for an ideal that I can’t seem to grasp—
Left longing for a daydream burnt to ash.
My ideal life, with closer friends, grass always green, skies often blue.
Maybe what I’m looking for is a house in the hills, with feelings I once knew.
Maybe I just need a few miles of space,
Tall trees, tall mountains, a wishful place.
My old-fashioned daydream of a country boy and a forest cabin,
It seems so simple and cliché, yet complicated to find.
Knowing what you want is half the battle, but what if you run out of steam?
A big dog lying on a rug by the fireplace, a hot cup of tea—
My country boy waits for me.
I haven’t met him just yet, he must be playing hard to get.
He must be a folk guitarist, with a one-month shadow,
Or a rustic cowboy, studying how the grass grows.
Maybe next year, I’ll find myself in Brazil—maybe not.
Maybe I’ll find myself in Jackson Hole, singing on a corner,
Or looking for work in some fancy art gallery. Maybe not.
Or maybe, I’ll still be sitting right here.
I’ll busk my way to a better day,
Play right through ‘til my fingers swell.
Sing out my lines like it’s my last breath,
Like the next day I might wake up in hell.