a 1,000 roads


I don’t know any roads like the back of my hand
but I’ve cut my palms crawling down a few,

crawling hands and feet to you,
being grateful I’ve got any blood left to bleed,

crawling through the mud
just to be able to rest on a riverbank 

for a night and avoid the flood,
crawling towards next pay day

with half a diet
and all the meters running low,

crawling through the working day
towards the weekend, the home time bell.

I have crawled for so long
I forgot how to stand up straight,

becoming natural to be down
in the dirt with the spurs kicking me.

How I longed to get back up on the saddle
and ride that horse on out of this town,

but it was my own spurs
pinning me down.