tumble weeds and rattlesnakes had been his comrades on the road,
another day was swallowed up , the night was getting cold,
he came across a general store, deserted like his life,
but lurking just inside the door, would be his strangest night,

the world has got it’s corners, the moon has got it’s place,
the still small voice communicates, through out the human race,
we cannot see it coming, it’s known by different names
maybe it’s the devil, whispering through flames,
the corners have their cobwebs, the moon has got it’s scars,
the still small voice can talk to us , regardless who we are,

through the broken windows , coyotes heard him pray,
a whisper from a still small voice, said “son you better stay”
as the words were sinking in, his head was sinking low,
behind his sunburnt eyelids, the dreams began to flow,

Midnight met the still small voice, off in another room
a trembling candle makes it's way, to a gentle guitar tune,
the drifter sees no one else, just a guitar on display,
where a whisper like an ocean breeze, say “you life has changed today

the morning met the drifter, the still small voice was gone,
through the broken window, eagles hear his song,

Forty years have come and gone, and the drifters passed away,
the still small voice is heard again, by a guitar on display,