Smokey

Somewhere in a small town, in a one room tin roof shack

Living life kinda slowed down, 3 miles from the rail road track

Staying close to the river, Killing time fishing down the old wood lake

Lives a man on mission, to stay away from the rat race

He's a quiet kind a soul with no family ties

Just a rifle on his arm and a dog by his side

Home cooking on a campfire, burning wood from the Georgia pine

Sipping whiskey from a hip flask, the only thing left to him when his daddy died

Steady living in the slow lane, you don't need much when you got all you need

Nobody knows his real name, they call him Smokey cos he drifts on the wind