I remember the smell of the creosote plant, When we'd have to eat on Easter with my Crazy old uncle and aunt. They lived in a big house Ante Bellum style, And the wind would blow across the old bayou, And I was a tranquil little child.
Life was just a tire swing. 'Jambalaya' was the only song I could sing. Blackberry pickin', eatin' fried chicken, And I never knew a thing about pain. Life was just a tire swing.
In a few summers my folks packed me off to camp; Yeah, me and my cousin' Baxter In our pup tent with a lamp. And in a few days Baxter went home, And he left me by myself. And I knew that I'd stay, it was better that way, And I could get along without any help. Life was just a tire swing.
And I've never been west of New Orleans Nor east of Pensacola. My only contact with the outside World was a n RCA Victrola. Elvis would sing and then I'd dream about Expensive cars, and who would've figured twenty Years later I'd be rubbing shoulders with the stars. Life was just a tire swing.
'Jambalaya' was the only song I could sing. Chasin' after sparrows with rubber tip arrows, Knowin' I could never hurt a thing, And life was just a tire swing.
Then the other morning on some Illinois road I fell asleep at the wheel, But was quickly wakened up by a 'Ma Bell' Telephone pole, and a bunch of Grant Wood Faces screaming, 'Is he still alive?' But through the window could see It hangin' from a tree, and I knew I had survived.
Life was just a tire swing. Jambalaya's still the best song that I can sing. Blackberry pickin', eatin' fried chicken, And I finally learned a lot about pain, 'cause life is just a tire swing.