The highway lines painted on my soul,
the only shoulder I have left to cry on.
Every time I get the urge to go
there's no more West to travel.

All my life I took to the road,
found safety in the glitter of asphalt,
the way-side stops and old truck drivers;
the hazy fumes of gasoline.

The interstate runs through my veins,
the pavement like a drug to me.

Lord, put me on the Eastbound Ninety,
shoot me south home to Carolina.
I'll ride these highways for the rest of my life,
just to smell the Atlantic surf once again.