I drive your truck Every back road in this town I find a field, I tear it up I roll every window down and I burn up Till all the pain’s a cloud of dust Yeah, sometimes I drive your truck Eighty-nine cents in the ash tray Half empty bottle of Gatorade

Stupid old pickup truck You never let me drive You're a redneck heartbreak Who's really bad at lying So watch me strike a match On all my wasted time Just another picture to burn As far as I'm concerned you're 'Cause I hate that

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys 'Cause they'll never stay home and they're always alone Even

People know you by your first name And what you did last night What kind of truck you drive How your team did back in high school So you can't lie Better watch out who you take home 'Cause around here, it's a fact of life It's a town just outside of

Sitting out in the drive I’m getting used to you not being there At church on Sunday night I’m getting used to the radio playing Without you singing along It’s just a little hard on me But I’m getting used to that old truck of yours But I’ll never get