|
Lines of yellow, lines of red |
|
Brake lights keep on braking down the road ahead |
|
And I'm cold, and I'm calloused, |
|
The blinding lights of Dallas send me home |
|
Send me home |
|
I heard the herald sing, |
|
"All ye wayward come!" |
|
What glad tidings bring, |
|
All you wayward sons! |
|
(Home, home) |
|
Canned and static conversations over longer distanced phones |
|
When every day's an expectation for the roots from which you've grown |
|
And you're no stranger to the silent days or nights spent all alone |
|
Once in a while, turn to smile when you think about your home |
|
Where mom and dad have decked the fixtures, every old familiar smell |
|
On every wall a dozen pictures, each with stories you could tell |
|
And there's no place you'd rather be, then where you just can be yourself |
|
You're going home |
|
And these Christmas lights won't steer me wrong |
|
'Cause I'll drive all night to carol songs |
|
And that old porch light will still be on |
|
When I step inside, I'm going home. |
|
Dead trees, and dull gray skies, within their season, helps you know you're still alive |
|
When all's at rest, the restless thrive so take me home, Christmas lights. |
|
Dead trees, and dull gray skies, within their season, helps you know you're still alive |
|
When all's at rest, the restless thrive so take me home, Christmas lights. |
