There is a little white house at the bottom of the street where my old man's fishing boat used to float in the shade of a willow tree.
Concrete angel in the garden with a sign saying 'welcome home' sleeping there in a bed of weeds where my momma's roses used to grow.
A busted out screen door beside a rusted front porch swing where daddy rolled his cigarettes smoked and listened to the crickets sing.
And every time it rained like a river I’d run home Standing with my brother beneath that tin roof waterfall.
What used to be what used to be all those years looking back at me I open up the gate take one step at a time just beyond the door go down the hallways of my mind with tears in my eyes I can see what used to be
At the bottom of the stairs beneath a cross upon a wall beside a bible on the table sits a picture of us all right there in black and white a precious moment of my life that takes me back to all my yesterdays
What used to be what used to be all those years looking back at me I open up the gate take one step at a time just beyond the door down the hallways of my mind with tears in my eyes I can see what used to be what used to be
There is a little white house at the end of my street where my old man's fishing boat used to float in the shade of a willow tree.
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