I was traveling, boots and sand.
High bound for miracle land.
Met a man called Buckingham,
Said, "Joe, won't you join our band?"
Nickle jangled in the jukebox,
Bird of Nashville sang ... wooo
So we carried on a long, long road.
To a place, where we've been told,
all your records turn to gold.
Birth land of rock-and-roll.
As we reached the border,
seven sheriffs arrived (seven sheriffs turn-on).
Me and my girl, are standing outside.
(oh, who are you?)
Is your name this?
You're on our no-song list!
Oh no, sir, no! This can't be so.
So they strung us to a friendly bird.
(They) flew us back to the lower world.
As we reached the morning light,
fame came overnight.
It's a strange, strange thing.
Whatever songs you had.
Some called good,
some called bad.
Now I'm back on the long long road.
One bag, and a song I wrote.
A little prayer in my hand.
Just me, boots and sand.
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