What's meant to be will always find a way.
Trisha Yearwood
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Local Boy in the Photograph
There's no mistake
I smell that smell
It's that time of year again
I can taste the air
Clocks go back railway track
Something blocks the line again
And the train runs late for the first time
A pebble beach, we're underneath a pier, just been painted red
Where I hear the news for the first time
And all the friends lay down the flowers
Sit on the banks and drink for hours
Talk of the way they saw him last
Local boy in the photograph
He'll always be twenty three
Yet the train runs on and on
Past the place they found his clothing
There's no mistake
I smell that smell
It's that time of year again
I can taste the air
The clocks go back railway track
Something blocks the line again
And the train runs late for the first time
And all the friends lay down the flowers
Sit on the banks and drink for hours
Talk of the way they saw him last
Local boy in the photograph
Today, is gone away