I have sweet memories of a far-off place,

Filled with crazy people and beautiful landscapes.

I have feelings for an ideal that I can’t seem to grasp—

Left longing for a daydream burnt to ash.

My ideal life, with closer friends, grass always green, skies often blue.

Maybe what I’m looking for is a house in the hills, with feelings I once knew.

Maybe I just need a few miles of space,

Tall trees, tall mountains, a wishful place.

My old-fashioned daydream of a country boy and a forest cabin,

It seems so simple and cliché, yet complicated to find.

Knowing what you want is half the battle, but what if you run out of steam?

A big dog lying on a rug by the fireplace, a hot cup of tea—

My country boy waits for me.

I haven’t met him just yet, he must be playing hard to get.

He must be a folk guitarist, with a one-month shadow,

Or a rustic cowboy, studying how the grass grows.

Maybe next year, I’ll find myself in Brazil—maybe not.

Maybe I’ll find myself in Jackson Hole, singing on a corner,

Or looking for work in some fancy art gallery. Maybe not.

Or maybe, I’ll still be sitting right here.

I’ll busk my way to a better day,

Play right through ‘til my fingers swell.

Sing out my lines like it’s my last breath,

Like the next day I might wake up in hell.