My Song Book


Glen Campbell

[D] Well, it's knowing that your door is always open,

And your path is free to [Em] walk,

That [A] makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up

And stashed behind your [D] couch.

And it's [D] knowing I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bonds,

And the ink stains that have dried upon some [Em] lines,

That [A] keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory,

And keeps you ever gentle on my [D] mind.

[D] It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy

Planted on their columns now that [Em] bind me,

Or [A] something that somebody said

Because they thought we fit together [D] walking.

It's just [D] knowing that the world will not be cursing or forgiving,

When I walk along some railroad track and [Em] find

That you're [A] moving on the back roads by the rivers of my memory,

And for hours you're just gentle on my [D] mind.

[D] Though the wheat fields and the coal mines

And the junkyards and the highways come be-[Em]-tween us,

And some [A] other woman's crying to her mother,

'Cause she turned and I was [D] gone.

[D] I still might run in silence, tears of joy might stain my face,

And the summer sun might burn me till I'm [Em] blind,

But [A] not to where I cannot see you walking on the back roads

By the rivers flowing gentle on my [D] mind.

[D] I dip my cup of soup from some gurgling, crackling cauldron

In some [Em] train yard,

My [A] beard a roughening coal pile

And a dirty hat pulled low across my [D] face.

[D] Through cupped hands round a tin can

I pretend to hold you to my breast and [Em] find

That you're [A] waving from the back roads by the rivers of my memory,

Ever smiling, ever gentle on my [D] mind.

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