On the road, away from a loved one (who can't cook), in a motel room that brings back an eclectic array of childhood memories. A song about being on the road but that, ironically, was written in the rented room I called home at the time.

Lyrics

The fake wood panelling on the closet doorreminds me of my Dad’s old carThe lampshade reminds me of my Mom’s long skirtsshe’d wear out in the yardAnd the ceiling ain’t made quite the samebut it’s got that nicotine glowYeah this hotel room ain’t nowhere near itbut it sure reminds me of homeOoo... yeah it sure reminds me of homeThe ashtray’s made of the same ceramicas my sister’s piggy bankAnd the boat in that sun-faded picture framelooks like the one my big brother sankYeah with these four walls cavin’ in on me,I only wish I had my own boat to rowNo it ain’t anywhere near itbut it sure reminds me of homeOoo... yeah it sure reminds me of homeYeah these eggs... they sure taste like rubberand I only wish the bacon would tooI’m a hundred and fifty thousand miles awaybut this place sure reminds me of youYeah this place sure reminds me of youOoo...The fake wood panelling on the closetreminds me of my Dad’s old carThe lampshade... of my Mom’s long skirtsshe'd wear gardening in the yardYeah these miles are gonna drive me crazyif the memories don’tYeah this hotel room ain’t nowhere near itbut it sure reminds me of homeOoo... yeah it sure reminds me of home
 
             
 
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