It don't make a damn bit'a difference
da way she handed me dat cup—
like she was searchin' fer sumthin',
eyes so wide they'd look right on past me.
Da party was shakin' ground dat night,
not fer da cars with neon lights nor
da speakers rattlin' in da truck beds,
but fer da way I stood in silence waitin'
at da beer keg empty handed. I was young,
and so was she—so young she shouldn't
even'a been der. We was jus two
travelers on different roads, an for some
reason I was able ta peak t'rue dose bushes
dis particular evenin' an see her standin'
der on her own dirt crossing. I s'pose
I might'a ducked down an t'rue da brush
ta git to her side of da woods dat night,
but she was gone by dat time.
Mebbe I jus been wanderin' here aimless in
her footsteps for a'while an lost my own way.
This story don't make a whole that much sense,
an I know you's thinkin', "Who gives a damn?"
But I saw da ocean in her eyes dat night,
an been wonderin' what it takes a man ta paddle
back to da shore—cuz I done seen all da
dusty roads from here down t'rue any which
way you can travel, an I still won't see her pretty
face but fer in my head tonight.
