On old country roads
His truck carries loads
He sets his eyes on his horizon
The dust he kicks up
His thermos and cup
The sun on his back it’s arisin’
Don’t think
Don’t pause to drink
Your sitting in mailman’s wasteland
O’Rielly leaves at dawn
His daily map is drawn
Fire in his eyes replaced by burning in his legs
The journey’s at an end
No time to talk to friends
Or get together
Even though your life begs
Long drive
No need to strive
Your sitting in mailman’s wasteland
Inalienable Write 
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