Текст: Robert Earl Keen. Farm Fresh Onions. These Years.

Down the hill
Through the light
Past the city jail
I watch and walk
Every night
I wondered who to tell

How can I tell my father?
He?s been gone all these years
I couldn?t tell my father
I couldn?t bear the tears

I was lost
In a rage
Didn?t ever mean to be
Now the cost
Has set the stage
And it will bury me