Barefoot, running across the fields, of Alabama fresh plowed ground
Jumping rows and stubbing toes, I'd run that old mule down.
And daddy would up his water jug and he'd say, boy my throat sure is dry.
Then he'd take out his old bandana and wipe the sweat from his eyes.
I'd take hold of his calloused hand and we go sit down in the shade.
And he'd tell me about the places that we were gonna see someday.
And when he talked about the ocean, I'd hear the tide come rolling in.
With simple words he'd paint a picture of a place he'd never been.
And the skies were always bluer than the ones that I have seen.
On the days we'd go walking, down the road of daddy's dream.
Daddy's gone away now and his dreams are mine alone.
And I've come a long long way from my Alabama home.
I've traveled across this country, Lord only knows how many times.
But I've never found the pictures that my daddy painted in my mind.
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