Little King, you grew up a mile from my town
And I never thought to write it down
Raking the autumn leaves and hoping for some pretty company
I was always packing a suitcase in the dark
In my mind, a highway to the western spark
Only an overpass over the hills, a dusty grass
And I would've taken all your rifles
And I would've taken all your bibles
And I would've taken all your rifles
Little King, I swear that this is not a dream
I read this is what it should be in a magazine
Son of the broken down and daughter of a ? imprisoned town
And I would've taken all your rifles
And I would've taken all your bibles
And I would've taken all your rifles
We can drink whiskey or sit inside the car
And listen to this silence of the stars
Only an overpass sprung from heels of broken glass
Many lands of sorrow and wishing for tomorrow
Make me your sweethearted lady