(intro) G

                G
1. Well, it's knowing that your door is always open,
                             Am
    and your path is free to walk,
          D
    that makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up
                             G
    and stashed behind your couch.

               G
    And it's knowing I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bonds,
                                                   Am
    and the ink stains that have dried upon some lines,
           D
    that keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory,
                                     G
    and keeps you ever gentle on my mind.

             G
2. It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy
                                      Am
    planted on their columns now that bind me,
        D
    or something that somebody said because
                                  G
    they thought we fit together walking.

                G
    It's just knowing that the world will not be cursing or forgiven,
                                              Am
    when I walk along some railroad track and find
                 D
    that you're moving on the back roads by the rivers of my memory,
                                            G
    and for hours you're just gentle on my mind.

                G
3. Though the wheat fields and the coal mines and the junkyards
                              Am
    and the highways come between us,
              D
    and some other woman's crying to her mother,
                                 G
    'cause she turned and I was gone.

       G
    I still might run in silence, tears of joy might stain my face,
                                               Am
    and the summer sun might burn me till I'm blind,
         D
    but not to where I cannot see you walking on the back roads
                                        G
    by the rivers flowing gentle on my mind.

     G
4. I dip my cup of soup from some gurgling, crackling cauldron
             Am
    in some train yard,
         D
    my beard a roughening coal pile
                                          G
    and a dirty hat pulled low across my face.

             G
    Through cupped hands round a tin can
                                           Am
    I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
                 D
    that you're waving from the back roads by the rivers of my memory,
                                     G
    ever smiling, ever gentle on my mind.