Little towns on Midwest ground, with the waves that feed not break.
There’s a broke down barn, and an unmowed lawn, and a prison down the street.
But it’s a nice little place to race a race, and it’s where I call my home.
And there ain’t nothing as sweet as a New Year’s Eve, cuz old Christmas can take a week.
Singing now, Holly holla luya Christmas I’ll be home, Holly holla luya, oh Christmas I’ll be home, Holly holla luya Christmas I’ll be home, Holly holla luya, oh Christmas I’ll be home.
Well It’s been so long since I’ve been home, a year now maybe three,
Though it could be four or maybe more, them years they creep like weeds,
Spent my Holidays for the last decade on what I thought was best but as it turned out without a doubt, my best was just a mess.
And as my little car sputters through the stars with the radio preaching at me and a road so straight a nun would celebrate, and sling Einstein to the back of his head.
But it’s the only way to get home today, and Ol’ 90 is a friend. So open the gates, let’s get on our way and leave the preaching for the died.