Now I don’t mind ever traveling to play; I’ve done it before in the bluegrass state and even as far as the west coast. And I’d just about go anywhere.

for dimes or dollars, hell, I don’t really care, but there’s one scene I despise the most. You see, I took a trip with my ex-girlfriend back before she left me for my best friend, but that’s a story for another time. Well, we packed up the car, and away we went, and all she did was bitch and vent until I saw them neon signs.

 

We hopped out the car and headed down the street. We walked in circles till we couldn’t feel our feet, then we jumped in a cab that was drove by a foreign guy. Well, he took us around, and he said it all wrong, and then he turned on one of his own country songs, and I realized that’s where people like me go to die. So I opened the door and rolled through the street, not caring about the girl and all about me when I noticed a billboard that was tall and lean. And trending now right before my eyes was a new number one that was wrote by five guys about a pickup truck and some pretty pink feet.

 

Well, I headed for 40. I didn’t hesitate cause I knew I had to find that interstate when I stumbled upon a truck stop on my right. Well, I banged on a cab and said, “I ain’t no lizard; let me in. I’ll even pay YOU, mister; take me anywhere, just away from these lights.” The driver said, “Son, now something ain’t right; you’re the third one who came a-knocking tonight claiming you hate just what you see. But I believe you’re in luck cause I like your boots, and I like your hat, but I hated their shoes, and most of all I hated their skinny jeans.”

 

So I climbed in the cab, and we headed south, and we hauled ass, and not a word from his mouth, but I kept catching him just a staring. And I’s getting pretty pissed, so I turned and looked, but I didn’t want to get kicked out of his truck, so I said, “Sir, what’s your caring?” He said, “I’ve seen you before, but I don’t know when. Say, did you perform at the MGM?” I said, “Well, yes sir, I actually did.” He said, “Well, hell, son, you’ve got it made. You write real songs, and you ain’t no fake, and you sure ain’t no copycat born from sin.”

 

Now don’t get me wrong, I believe in help, but I don’t get my songs from someone else. I write about struggles and my will. There’s gold chains and white t-shirts, slim fit and not a drop of dirt

And I ain’t never going back to Nashville.