There's a little dive on a dead-end road,
Called the Cross-Eyed Cricket Waterin' Hole,
Where you can hear the sound of a steel-guitar,
An' get loud an' rowdy on PBR.
But at the top of every hour, man, you can hear a pin drop,
As ol' Jack drops in a quarter an' plays Merle on the jukebox, an' we stop:

An' tip our hats,
An' raise our glasses of cold, cold beer.
They say country's fadin',
But we're still wavin' that flag around here.
An' when it's time to go, you know you're welcome back,
Where the people pledge allegiance to The Hag.

When the weekend comes an' the weather's clear,
There's a high spot fifteen miles from here.
Where you can always find a few dusty trucks,
With the windows down an' the radio up.
We sit there poppin' tops, shootin' bull an' singin songs,
But you can bet your boots that when Haggard comes on.

An' tip our hats,
An' raise our glasses of cold, cold beer.
They say country's fadin',
But we're still wavin' that flag around here.
An' when it's time to go, you know you're welcome back,
Where the people pledge allegiance to The Hag.

One of these days when my time has come,
You can take me back to where I'm from.
Put me on a westbound train,
An' ship me off in the pourin' rain.
Don't cry for me when I'm gone.
Just put a quarter in the jukebox an' sing me back home.

An' tip your hats,
An' raise your glasses of cold, cold beer.
They say country's fadin',
But just keep wavin' that flag around here.
An' I know, it'll keep on coming back,
Long as people pledge allegiance;
Where folks still pledge allegiance;
I pledge allegiance to The Hag.

:. Instrumental Close .: