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1. Well, it's knowing Gthat your door is always open,
and your path is free to walk, Am
that makesD me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up
and stashed behind your couch. G
And it's knowingG I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bonds,
and the ink stains that have dried upon some lines, Am
that keepsD you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory,
and keeps you ever gentle on my mind. G
2. It's not clingGing to the rocks and ivy
planted on their columns now that bind me, Am
or somDething that somebody said because
they thought we fit together walking. G
It's just knowinGg that the world will not be cursing or forgiven,
when I walk along some railroad track and find Am
that you're moving onD the back roads by the rivers of my memory,
and for hours you're just gentle on my mind. G
3. Though the wheat fields aGnd the coal mines and the junkyards
and the highways come between us, Am
and some other womaDn's crying to her mother,
'cause she turned and I was gone. G
I stGill might run in silence, tears of joy might stain my face,
and the summer sun might burn me till I'm blind, Am
but not Dto where I cannot see you walking on the back roads
by the rivers flowing gentle on my mind. G
4. I diGp my cup of soup from some gurgling, crackling cauldron
in some train yAmard,
my beard Da roughening coal pile
and a dirty hat pulled low across my face. G
Through cupped hGands round a tin can
I pretend to hold you to my breast and find Am
that you're waving fDrom the back roads by the rivers of my memory,
ever smiling, ever gentle on my mind. G
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