I've been hearing things at night in this big old house.
It ain't just the pistols, and the frogs, and trains.
It's a rumbling sound, rising like red-clay clouds,
From the ghosts of the Alabama Gang.
Bubba, it's been too long
Since you sang it for the sake of the song.
Some things, once you sell them, you can't buy back,
So I'm going to keep on working—keep it on the dirt track.
Keep on working—keep it on the dirt track.
Daddy'd watch them spit dirt from the hood of his Chevelle,
Marshall Tucker on the radio:
Good old boys turning junk into wheels of blazing fire,
Squeezing glory out of three rusty chords.
Bubba, it's been too long
Since you sang it for the sake of the song.
Some things, once you sell them, you can't buy back,
So I'm going to keep on working—keep it on the dirt track.
Keep on working—keep it on the dirt track.
Running that oval will teach you that
Where you start is where you'll wind up at.
But, while the cameras were rolling,
And the crowds were growing,
They went and tore the old dirt track down.