When the moon comes over the mountain,
and the purple haze drifts over the sky;
I sit on my porch and listen to the wolves howl and cry.


Granny has gone to bed in the loft under her patch work quilt,
and I contemplate life's meaning not without some guilt.


The years have flown and passed me by,
and what have I done with them, as I let out a sigh.


Down in the valley, the town folks celebrate life.
Up here on the mountain life has been filled with strife.


Somewhere between now and the grave;
I must make up for the mistakes I've made.