On a long and lonesome highway, East of Omaha, You can listen to the engine moaning out its one lone song You can think about the woman, or the girl you knew the night before, But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do, When you're riding sixteen hours and there's nothing else to do, And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through,
Say, here I am, on the road again. There I am, up on the stage, Here I go, playing star again. There I go, turn the page.
Well, you walk into a restaurant, strung out from the road, You can feel the eyes upon you as you're shaking off the cold, You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode. Most times you can't hear 'em talk, other times you can. The same old cliches, is that a woman or a man? You always seem out-numbered, you don't dare make a stand.
Here I am, on the road again. There I am, up on the stage, Here I go, playing star again. There I go, turn the page.
When you're out there in the spotlight, you're a million miles away, Every ounce of energy, you try and give away, As the sweat pours out your body like the music that you play. Later in the evening as you lie awake in bed, With the echo from the amplifiers ringing in your head, You smoke the days last cigarette, remembering what she said.
Now here I am, on the road again. There I am, up on the stage, Here I go, playing star again, There I go, turn the page.
Here I am, on the road again. There I am, up on the stage, There I go, playing star again, There I go, there I go.
