Corb LundNo Roads Here

CHORUS: There are no roads here There are no signposts To guide a man thru this dark land There are no roads here There is no history No written law to stay one's hand Well there's a growed over wagon trail that's headed for the west There's a tipi ring out to Purple Springs if your ponies need their rest There's a shepherd out in Vauxhall in the coulees who may know But the sheep shack's old and leaning and that was sixty years ago CHORUS Well, I see handcarts pulled by desperate settlers bent under the yoke Fleeing lives of certain serfdom for this new faith of which he spoke Trekking 'cross the desert with a few intrepid Danes There's times I still think I can feel the blood of Vikings in my veins I hear "Strawberry Roan" and there's bison bones been bleached out in the sun South of Raymond, whiskey trade, the antelope still run Hidden family reasons at the edge of consciousness Silhouettes of grazing cattle on that olde Milk River Ridge CHORUS © 2019