Hundreds More To Go

There's six hundred miles behind me,

got four hundred more to go.

Think I'll make it by morning,

then, it looks like snow.

Stopped here for some coffee,

maybe I'll give her a call.

But I can't find the words to tell her

there's nothing between us at all.

 

The waitress with the coffee,

smiles like a neon sign.

I guess after so many years,

more than one's been mine.

She asks if I remember her name,

if I did it would be a lie.

Maybe it was on old '66

or maybe on highway 5.

 

Take a room at the old motel,

she'll cost a pretty dime.

Why do I keep telling myself,

it's going to be the last time.

To have a home, wife, a family,

you don't know how hard I've tried.

Sometimes the road seems so long,

and at times not very wide.

 

It's been a long winding road

since I met that gal.

I've pushed this rig of mine,

north, east, west, and south.

Guess I really can't blame her,

for wanting me to hang around.

Hell, I was born a truck driving man,

and I just can't settle down.

 

(Hundreds More to Go, copyright Steven S. Walsky, 1975, all rights reserved.)


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