"County Road 29"—Crooked Timber

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County Road 29

(Music and lyrics by Scott Ryan)

Me oh my, what a hot July!
I'm gonna roam the whole damn day.
I follow my feet through the pounding heat
Across the bridge out Goose Creek way.
I walk a ways through the dusty haze
Till the haze seeps through my mind
And rolls around till I forget I'm bound
Toward County Road 29.

I'm set to stroll on cruise control
And the last I clearly knew,
I was half a mile from the old slag pile
Where the quarry road cuts on through.
Now suddenly I'm made mindful by
The creak of an old road sign;
I turn around and I learn I'm down
On County Road 29.

          Well, the heat waves coming off the asphalt
          Make the air shimmer in the bright sunshine
          And there's an old crow picking at some roadkill
          That could have been a friend of mine.
          You can tell yourself all the lies you please
          About your place in the grand design,
          But there's an old crow picking at the roadkill
          Down on County Road 29.

A sickly breeze through the barren trees
Makes a rattling, raspy sound
And it stirs the dirt of the poor souls hurt
When the old steel mill shut down.
There's broke-down shacks made of corrugated steel
Held together with bits of twine,
The bones of a town abandoned down
On County Road 29.

There's an empty lot with the cracked ground dotted
By pieces of broken glass,
And right around here's where the kids drink beer
And throw the cans in the unmown grass.
And around the back there's the rusty track
Of a long-dead railroad line
Where the freight came through (and the hobos too)
Along County Road 29.

          And the heat waves coming off the asphalt
          Make the air shimmer in the bright sunshine
          And there's an old crow picking at some roadkill
          That could have been a friend of mine.
          You can tell yourself all the lies you please
          About your place in the grand design,
          But there's an old crow picking at the roadkill
          Down on County Road 29.

Now the air hangs still as the hot sun spills
From the blue and cloudless sky
Except for a rush in the underbrush
As an old grey 'coon slinks by.
I stand and smile and I think a while
About the things that we leave behind.
Then I turn around and I'm homeward bound
From County Road 29.

          And the heat waves coming off the asphalt
          Make the air shimmer in the bright sunshine
          And there's an old crow picking at some roadkill
          I could have sworn was a friend of mine.
          You can tell yourself all the lies you please
          About your place in the grand design,
          But there's an old crow picking at the roadkill
          Down on County Road 29.

          Tell the old crow on County Road 29.