Where the Oiled Road Ends

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"Where the Oiled Road Ends"

Ray Bond, in the city, his home, posh and pretty,

has a housemaid who cooks, cleans, and mends,

but my homestead, out here, is the spot I hold dear...

It's the place where the oiled road ends.

Ray has seen distant lands, danced to notable bands,

met with businessmen, statesmen, and kings...

yet I've savored the sky, with the hawks, flying by,

as the cool autumn breeze filled their wings.

He's just married his third. Like an elegant bird,

she's a trophy for Ray's golden age,

but, no less for the wear, I adore the gray hair

of my confidant, sweetheart, and sage.

Ray can drink his fine wines, wear a tux, when he dines;

He can brag hoard of fine cars;

But I sip my cheap gin from a cup made of tin,

while I'm out, ridin' herd, 'neath the stars.

All Ray's children are sure that they'll never be poor,

'cause he's named every one in his will.

But just what are kids worth, who ain't worked since their birth,

toward that prize at the top of the hill.

Ray can endlessly search, in an elegant church,

for a God, who ain't spoken for years.

But, each time that I kneel in the grass, I can feel

that He's heard all my troubles and fears.

As the years take their toll, Ray'll search, in his soul,

for the value of things he's acquired,

but possessions won't give him a reason to live,

when he's lonely and empty and tired.

All I've got is this shack...some old saddles and tack...

one good pony, my cows, and my gal.

There ain't shadow of doubt, I can't be down or out,

with a wife, who's a genuine pal.

I was born, 'neath the moon, with no fine, silver spoon,

and no hank'rin' for fashion or trends.

All my clothes are homespun, and the chores, never done,

in this place, where the oiled road ends...

Where the herds slowly drift and the soft snowflakes sift,

and I'm sharin' a fire with friends.

Back from finish to start, I'm glad God made me part

of this place, where the oiled road ends.