Buttermilk pancakes, fresh off the pan Returning from the barn, eggs in hand Nostrils burning, the airs so pure Pine trees, trails, they're the perfect cure Woods resembling the appalachian country Leaves all orange, no, golden like honey Ancient wooden or old brick homes Miles of national forest to roam Trails worn thin by generations of family I swear, the sun shines brighter, seemingly Preacher is always dropping by to eat Lance is out hunting fresh deer meat And we... we are here to enjoy it all And occasionally have a trampoline brawl The point is, this place never feels wrong Dry Prong, where I feel I truly belong