Little King, you grew up a mile from my town
And I never thought to write it down
Raking the autumn leaves and hoping for some pretty company

I was always packing a suitcase in the dark
In my mind, a highway to the western spark
Only an overpass over the hills of dusty grass

And I would have taken all your rifles
And I would have taken all your bibles
And I would have taken all your rifles
For a ride

Little King, I swear that this is not a dream
I read that this is what it should be in a magazine
Son of the broken-down, daughter of a love and prison town

And I would have taken all your rifles
And I would have taken all your bibles
And I would have taken all your rifles
For a ride
For a ride
For a ride

We can drink whiskey or sit inside the car
And listen to the silence of the stars
Only an overpass sprung from hills of broken glass
Many lands of sorrow and wishing for tomorrow
Make me your sweet-hearted lady