Oh, he listens to the countdown, every Sunday morning
|
From a cold solitary prison cell
|
And the music from his radio is like freedom down a dirt toad
|
Makes that eight by ten a brighter hill
|
|
Before he started doing all the hard time that he's doing
|
He was singing in them honky-tonks and dives
|
He dreamed of being somebody, now he's number 37405
|
|
Well she used to come and see him, every other weekend
|
And bring him all the news from way back home
|
It's been two birthdays since he's kissed her,
|
Five seconds since he's missed her
|
Now the perfume on those letters ain't that strong
|
|
He's got too much time to think about the night he had too much to drink
|
And all his buddies, they begged him not to drive
|
Mr. Life of the Party, he's now number 37405
|
|
Old judge on the bench said, "Son, your crime's got consequences."
|
It's what he told him, fifteen years ago
|
He took a life and that's a fact, he'd give his own to give it back
|
Today's the day he finally gets parole
|
|
He turns in them prison clothes, and stands there at the forkin' road
|
And mama prays and waits while he decides
|
And the angels close their eyes...
|
|
Listens to the birds sing on a perfect autumn morning
|
Just down the road, rings an old church bell
|
|
-----------------
|
Number 37405
|
| Tim McGraw |
