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.