Where the Water Tastes Like Wine

Tell me Woody, Where does the water taste like wine? And which highway do I take out of here to get there? Tell me Woody, Which train do I hop? Which car should I hitch? Which pair of boots will walk me there all the way No stopping to tie them or to mend holes. Tell me Woody, Where can I get that do-re-mi? Trapped between my love and my disdain for this version of America of which I am slowly becoming a part of The Plains drift over me, the clouds pull the sheets over my eyes as a prairie breeze tucks me into bed with the locomotive lullaby floating in the sunset. Tell me Woody, Where does your hard travelling end? I’ve walked 66 and the Lincoln, lived in steel-Pittsburgh and the harvest lands. I’ve got no home in this world Woody, take me there, Take me where the water tastes like wine.