The story of my life.
They said I’d never leave here.
I never have.
Boy to man, young to old.
It’s the little things that make me stay (or stop me from leaving).
The telephone wires, swaying in the breeze.
The distant rock music from the roadhouse.
The fields of corn, like golden grass, mesmerising me.
All these things could be the reason I stay, but they’re not.
It’s because I have no bloody ambition.
I don’t want much from life: paying my way, a roof over my head, food, water.
But hey, that’s the story of my life.