Trace Faulkner - Son Of A Gun

I was a son of a gun before I met your momma
Staying out late trying to keep with the wooden pines
Coming home with nothing but whiskey on my collar
Tonight I'm staying in bed

Keeping up with dreaming that's been a little under cover
Keep them tied up in case the jury can't be found
The glasstop's got your back so what's left to discover
Steeping in your head

Now you're kissing kerosene in the middle of Johnson City
Making our way to quieter times I'm sure
Loving this life a little tho it ain't too pretty
Singing and staying well fed

Your sipping on something your daddy ought to have warned you
Wasting my breath for the last 20 years of my life
Keeping my faith on track like we're dangling a carrot
Sleeping on Sunday instead

I waste my time
On a wooden dime
And a carousel of bills I can't pay

Come walk with me
I'm not supposed to be
The man of your dreams that got away

I was a son of a gun before I met your momma
I was a son of a bitch before I met that girl
I was a son of a gun before I met your momma
I was a son of a gun

Written by:
Trace Faulkner

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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