Last Pitch Home

(hm-mmmm) There's a worn-out glove on the porch steps still

And his favorite boots by the windowsill

He'd chase that ball till the sun went down

The sweetest left-hand swing in this whole town

Come November mornings he was

first awake

To hear the quiet

that the cold winds make

With his old brass compass and his

wooden stock

Now we're just counting

the ticks of the clock

Oh, we still play his songs

when the porch light's on

Pass the old guitar

till the break of dawn

We can hear his laugh

in the three-part chord

Singing loud and free for his own reward (oh-oh-oh)

All his hunting buddies

still drop on by

To share a story

and to dry an eye

They talk about the big buck

that got away

And how he laughed and said we'd try another day

Oh, we still play his songs

when the porch light's on

Pass the old guitar

till the break of dawn

We can hear his laugh

in the three-part chord

Singing loud and free for his own reward

Singing loud and free...

Yeah, we're singing loud and free (mm-mmmmm)