We blew in on a wayward gust, you might call the drifter's wind. Six foot frame of hobo dust, a rugged life that sifted thin. From Alberta to Coeur d'Alene, Mary met his second wife. Got as far as Abilene, he gave up the married life. Married life fit like a glove, kind of tight and kind of thin. Whoever wrote the book of love, never heard a drifter's wind. He's riding easy on a low prairie, rolling tumbleweed. Far as you can see, one lone cowboy from Calgary. He's drifting lonely, yeah, but drifting free. Sadly written's what he says, sadly written's what he means. Whoever wrote the book of love, wrote a romance magazine. He's riding easy on a low prairie, rolling tumbleweed. Far as you can see, one lone cowboy from Calgary. He's drifting lonely, yeah, but drifting free. He's drifting lonely, yeah, but drifting free.