Going Home

Its cold up here in Chicago, 1000 miles from home
I’m high as a kite and still feeling so down low
The birds fly south for winter, and somehow man
was made to roam
For the highway signs of freedom, and the double lines
that lead you home

I’ve traveled 900 miles, and got 100 more to go
I’m searching for the steel guitar on AM radio
I can smell the Jasmine and honey suckle on the vine
I get that old familiar feeling rolling south down 29