A young cowboy went riding to find a place you never call home
Ran into the horizon, thinks he found that pot of gold
I rang that dinner bell, threw out a long lasso
I begged and pleaded for a couple years he never came home

Youu0027re flying high, Iu0027m crying blind
Youu0027re laughing seven inches from the sun
Iu0027m here picking up the pieces
Maybe youu0027re the lucky one

Come back as a hummingbird
Whip-poor-will in a holler down low
The wind through a willow tree, a little voice in my soul

Youu0027re flying high Iu0027m crying blind
Youu0027re laughing seven inches from the sun
Iu0027m here picking up the pieces
Maybe youu0027re the lucky one
Maybe youu0027re the lucky one

A young cowboy went riding to find a place you never call home