You Don't Write A Song To Sit

Done Laid Around, Done Stayed Around This Old Town Too Long And It Seems Like I've Got To Travel On

In The Home Of The Brave, Jefferson Turning Over In His Grave.

The Rifleman's Stalking The Sick And The Lame, Preacherman Seeks The Same, Who'll Get There First Is Uncertain.

They Say Everything Can Be Replaced, Yet Every Distance Is Not Near. So I Remember Every Face Of Every Man Who Put Me Here. I See My Light Come Shining From The West Unto The East. Any Day Now, Any Day Now, I Shall Be Released.

Some Formulas Are Too Complex And I Don't Want Anything To Do With Them.