Holler Water

{slow

clean acoustic guitar strumming,

distant weeping dobro slide,

crisp country-trap

hi-hat tick} Way up where the mountain laurel grows,

Past the winding creek where nobody goes.

Fog rolls low through the pine tree line,

That’s where Grandpa cooked that mountain shine.

Copper kettle glowing in the pale moonlight,

Wood smoke drifting through the dead of night.

Every crack of a twig makes your heart beat fast,

‘Cause the law’s been trying to find us for years gone past.

We’re hiding from the law in these Appalachian hills,

Keeping old traditions alive with our copper stills.

Boots in the mud,

rifles by the door,

Aint giving up this mountain life we’re living for.

The whip-poor-will sings while the coyotes howl,

The moon lights up this rocky old trail somehow.

If you come looking,

you better know the way,

These old backwoods mountains don’t give up their prey.

Four-wheel drive parked beneath the pines,

Covered up with branches and old grapevines.

Mama’s baking biscuits on an iron stove,

While the sweet mash bubbles nice and slow.

Neighbors don’t ask and they never tell,

Around these parts we all know each other well.

Respect the mountain and it’ll treat you right,

Just don’t bring strangers around at night.

Generations carved these winding trails,

Living off the timber through rain and hail.

Every ridge and holler’s part of who we are,

Guided home

by the North Star.

We’re hiding from the law in these Appalachian hills,

Working hard beside those old copper stills.

Sun comes up on another mountain dawn,

We’ll keep on living long after we’re gone.

Raise a mason jar to the mountain sky,

Where the hawks still soar and the eagles fly.

This old backwoods spirit never fades away,

Deep in Appalachia where we’ll always stay.

The fire burns low… the night’s still young… Another old mountain story

has just begun.

{acoustic guitar fades out,

lone slide dobro echoes,

wind noise}