Fifty Miles From Nowhere


Oh I'm sitting on the edge of, fifty miles from nowhere,

The fog is hanging low like an old patchwork quilt.

The moon ain't shining bright, the stars arn't out tonight.

And I'm just sitting on the edge of, fifty miles from nowhere.


Here the rustling of the pines with the breeze upon the branches.

Hear the croaking of the frogs as they sit beneath the rushes.

Hear the screeching of a nighthawk as upon a mouse he pounces.

Life goes on, fifty miles from nowhere.


This is the first day of the last, fifty miles from nowhere.

See the new green grass, fifty miles from nowhere.

See the sun a shimmering off a little mossy creek.

Oh the best day is the last, fifty miles from nowhere.

Yea, the best day is the last, fifty miles from nowhere.


© March, 1973 by Francis H. Peters


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