No one knows
where the old road goes
but we know where it comes from
as the cold wind blows
it makes her feel wild
when i lick her toes
the white oak tree grows
and the farmer sows
the yardboy mows
and still no one knows
why its so strange
and always so new
when you're out on the range
with a cowboy or two
so she fell asleep
and i still stir
she is counting sheep
and i am seeing a blur
walking away
and taking my time
it will soon be today
time to lose another dime
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem