Well they call me a dying breed, son I’m feeling dead indeed.
Ain’t a word for how worn out I feel.
I got everything I need, with some ragged out tools and elbow grease.
Seen the world out the window of an old F150.

Son I ain’t had a drink, since your mama split and left you and me.
Bare feet kicking up dust at my heels.
It’s been a good run, some hard luck.
Some quiet tears in a beat up truck.
But there ain’t too many more miles in this old tank.

I’m trying to find a way to mill my heart to a finer shape.
And call for you in the words I can’t seem to find.
But my lungs are tied in knots, gonna leave this world with a quiet thought.
I see your heart boy and it eases my mind.

You didn’t come with brakes.
Tried to sow you but it didn’t take, what's the rush son, you know the end can wait.
Drank yourself into a hospital bed, your guts a mix of vodka and red.
Ten days later, you’re back on the bottle again.
And I never was a man of faith, tried to find it but it didn’t take.
But boy those days you drove this old man to pray.
There’s a long line of hard headed men, cut from the stone and the timberland.
You can’t tell an O'hare a goddamn thing.

So I’m trying to find a way to mill my heart to a finer shape.
Call for you in the words I can’t seem to find.
But my lungs are tied in knots, gonna leave this world with a quiet thought.
I see your heart boy and it eases my mind.

Well they call me a dying breed, son I’m feeling dead indeed.
There ain’t a word for how worn out I feel.
But I got everything I need, sitting next to me in this rumble seat.
There’s an easy light son, cutting through the pines