Eigh (Bbsus2)ty nine cents in the ash tray,

half emp ty bot tle of Ga tor ade roll in’ in the floor board,

that dirt y Braves cap on the dash.

Dog tags hang in’ from the rear view,

old Skoal can and cow boy boots and a (Ebsus2)“Go Ar my” shirt

fold ed in the back.

This thing burns gas like cra zy but that’s al right.

Peo ple got their ways of cop in’, oh, and I got mine:

I drive your truck.

I roll ev ’ry win dow down and I burn up

ev ’ry back road in this town.

I find a field.

I tear it up ’til all the pain’s a cloud of (F)dust.

Yeah, some times

I drive your truck.

I (Bbsus2)leave that ra di o play in’ the same old coun try sta tion where you left it.

Yeah, man, I crank it up.

And you’d prob ’ly punch my arm right now

if you saw this tear roll in’ down on my face.

Hey, man, I’m try’n’ to be tough.

And Mom ma asked me this morn in’ if I’d been by your grave.

But that flag and stone ain’t where I feel you an (Eb)y way.

I drive your truck.

I drive your truck.

I’ve cussed, I’ve prayed, I’ve said good bye; (Eb)shook my fist and asked God why.

(Bb)These days, when I’m miss in’ you this (F)much,

I drive your truck.

I roll ev ’ry win dow down and I burn up

ev ’ry back road in this town.

I (F)find a field.

I tear it up ’til all the pain’s a cloud of (F)dust.

Yeah, some times,

broth er, some times

I drive your truck.