The miles that keep us far apart
are endless, unforgiving,
the house is sold, got calls to make,
a guy must make a living.
Roads and motels separate us,
simple things that stretch and tear,
leave us yearning for each other,
distance is too much to bear.
Streaky windshield blocks my vision,
get gassed up and check the oil,
change the blades and grab a burger,
Egg McMuffin's 'bout to spoil.
Maryland, then West Virginia,
white line fever, neon lights,
blurred then blinded by a downpour,
makes it hard to see at night.
Monday morning, Georgia state line,
Florida is beckoning,
I'll be in Tampa before noontime,
easy by my reckoning.
Minutes from my destination
and a brand new neighbourhood,
soon I'll see my wife and children,
things are surely lookin' good!
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe