Oh yeah, oh no, the train, every two or three years, the train kills somebody. Every two or three years, yep. Everybody knows about the train, okay, you hear it constantly. I think the train is a way to find your way out of this life, if you get hit by it. Carrying sheet metal and household appliances through the pouring rain. They were planning on getting married after graduation, had a little baby girl. Trouble came and shut it down. Things like that ain't supposed to happen in this quiet town. Families are tight. Good people still don't deadbolt their doors at night. In this quiet town. When we first heard opioid stories, they were always in whispering tones. Now banners of sorrow mark the front steps of childhood homes. Parents swept through daddy's girl eulogies and marriage bash milestones. With their daughters and sons laying there lifeless in their suits and gowns. But somebody's been keeping secrets. In this quiet town. They know how to live. Good people who lean on Jesus, they're quick to forgive. In this quiet town. And whenever I'm near the town, I'll find some reason to give. And I will walk with the dead and the living where I used to live. And every time I see my parents in the prime of their lives, offering their son the kind of love he could never put down. Part of me is still that stainless kid. Lucky in this quiet town. Salt of the land. Hard working people, if you're in trouble, they'll lend you a hand. Here in this quiet town. The first crop of hay is up. Schooling out and the sun beats down. Smoke billows from a Sunday train that cries away from a quiet town. The End