Atlanta

The future was planned on a promise

It all fell apart in the end

We never made it back to Atlanta

Made it back on our words once again

I was 21, Clay was 23, Matt was the youngest, we were all naive

In an old black van travelling south, to a place we'd only heard about

With open arms they let us in, bought us beers till the show began

That night, I remember still, I know I always will

The next year we were all surprised, with the reception that we did find

And when I said we'd be back in time, I know now i told a lie

Those days had no urgency, for we were young and we couldn't see

That too often the good men die, and good times will pass you by

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Lyrics submitted by Rod Beaudry.