Every inch of that county was sacred ground. I wish I knew where that old truck was. If it could talk it could tell on us. If you want to know the real me, just turn the page in my dirt road diary. It’s right there for you to see, every kiss, every beer, every cotton field memory. Tan legs and some Dixie Land delight, ridin’ round, windows down on a summer night. I was there, and that was me. It's right here in my dirt road diary.
