You get your hands in it, plant your roots in it,
Dust your head a lot, dance with your boots in it.
You write her name on it, spin your tires on it,
Build your cornfield, whiskey bonfires on it.
You bet your life on it.
You stand out, shade red, rust clay.
You grew up on that plowed-up ground.
At your dad, there is luck on that post-game party field.
You circle up home, and when it rains, you get stuck on.
Trip the crowd, back behind the county road.
Then you run up the mud on her jeans.
Then she peeled off and hung up her blue-eyed summertime smile.
Looks so good that it hurts.
Makes you want to build a ten percent down,
White picket fence house on this dirt.
You make some sweat with it, take in a shovel to it.
You stuck some crosses and some painted gold posts through it.
You know you came from it.
And someday you'll return to this.
You stand out, shade red, rust clay.
You grew up on that plowed-up ground.
At your dad, there is luck on that post-game party field.
You circle up home, and when it rains, you get stuck on.
Trip the crowd, back behind the county road.
Then you run up the mud on her jeans.
Then she peeled off and hung up her blue-eyed summertime smile.
Looks so good that it hurts.
Makes you want to build a ten percent down,
White picket fence house on this dirt.
You know you came from it.
And someday you'll return to this.
You stand out, shade red, rust clay.
You grew up on that plowed-up ground.
At your dad, there is luck on that post-game party field.
You circle up home, and when it rains, you get stuck on.
Trip the crowd, back behind the county road.
Then you run up the mud on her jeans.
Then she peeled off and hung up her blue-eyed summertime smile.
Looks so good that it hurts.
Makes you want to build a ten percent down,
White picket fence house on this dirt.
Makes you want to build a ten percent down,
White picket fence house on this dirt.
You know you came from it.
And someday you'll return to this.