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Carl Smith
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There's Nobody Home On the Range Anymore
the old man used to dream of the fortunes he'd seen
now he lives in a room where you pay by the week
his hands are all battered and his ponie's gone lame
and his bones always ache when the sky looks like rain
well he dreams of the old days when bronc bustin' paid
and the wide open spaces where buffalo play
deep in his memory wild horses ride on
but he knows the good times have all come and gone
there's nobody home on the range anymore
they've closed down the bunkhouse pad locked the door
now there's oil-wells and motels and folks by the store
but there's nobody home on the range anymore
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now the eagle's stopped flyin', the night wind is still
and the last coyote's howlin' on some lonely hill
the old man is longing to lay it all down
in his final box canyon, the poor side of town
cause he knows his last mountain is two flights of stairs
and his saddle's turned into an old rockin' chair
and morning she wakes up and wonders what for
cause there's nobody home on the range anymore
there's nobody home on the range anymore
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