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B. r. hornsby |
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Hey now, where are you going |
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Where are you going to my friend |
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Said i'm going out to find |
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The pastures of plenty |
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I believe they're out there somewhere |
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Did you hear about the girl |
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Alone in the world |
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Thought she was losing her mind |
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She found it in the discarded refuse pile |
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Down near the railroad line |
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A book of sonnets torn and tattered |
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A few remained intact |
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One held the key, she said to me |
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To getting some feeling back |
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Sometimes my head turns round and round |
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Sometimes you talk but i can't hear a sound |
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Sometimes i look down, find my feet off the ground |
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I feel that i'm somewhere else bound |
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Hey now, where are you going |
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Where are you going to my friend |
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Said i'm going out to find |
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The pastures of plenty |
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I believe they're out there somewhere |
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She looked down the railroad tracklined with trees on each side |
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She prayed for the strength to run to the boxcar |
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To pull herself up for the ride |
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You invite me to your house - you're so sincere |
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We sit so close for a while |
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You reach out for me in the low light so clear |
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But you look like you're frowning when you smile |
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Hanging around just to see what could happen |
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Hanging on by oh, the thinnest thread |
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Sometimes i see the faintest glimpse |
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Sometimes i feel i'd be better off in bed |
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Hey now, where are you going |
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Where are you going to my friend |
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Said i'm going out to find |
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The pastures of plenty |
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I believe they're out there somewhere |
