“Fill ’er up, buttercup, tuck into the hills, where the road bends lazy and the old station still has a little fuel left, though it ain’t for your Ford, it’s burgers on the grill and cold beer being poured.
Once pumps and petrol, grease, grit, and gas, now music rolls out where the motorists passed. An old garage door swings open the scene, part beer joint, part backyard, wonderfully lean.
Half-pound Angus sizzling away, patty melts pressed in the proper old way. Pulled pork, fish tacos, fries by the pile, good grub for a wanderer resting awhile.
No rhinestones required, no big-city shine, just Tennessee hills and a mighty good time. Grab a stool, hear a tune, let the evening unwind, then leave that crooked old highway behind.
“Fill ’er up, buttercup, tuck into the hills,
where the road bends lazy and the old station still
has a little fuel left, though it ain’t for your Ford,
it’s burgers on the grill and cold beer being poured.
Once pumps and petrol, grease, grit, and gas,
now music rolls out where the motorists passed.
An old garage door swings open the scene,
part beer joint, part backyard, wonderfully lean.
Half-pound Angus sizzling away,
patty melts pressed in the proper old way.
Pulled pork, fish tacos, fries by the pile,
good grub for a wanderer resting awhile.
No rhinestones required, no big-city shine,
just Tennessee hills and a mighty good time.
Grab a stool, hear a tune, let the evening unwind,
then leave that crooked old highway behind.
Some stations fill tanks.
This one fills bellies.
Peace. Piece. Peas.“