The county sent men with stakes and string last week of September — they always do, right before first frost, when the ground's still soft enough to grade. That's the spark behind this one. No headline, no scandal, just the oldest outlaw story rural America's still telling: a man who won't sign the right-of-way. I've met him in a dozen counties. Coffee slow in his hand, hat pulled low, granddaddy's ground under his boots.
But I didn't want a song about a man who loses, even if he loses — I wanted the turn. In this one, they never move him. They pour four lanes around his acre, and that stubborn little island becomes the most famous porch light on two hundred miles of highway. Every trucker eases off the gas going by. He never won the fight. He stayed — and out here, staying is winning.
That's Monday's outlaw truth: rebellion ain't for show. It's for peace. Turn it up on your way to work.
[Verse 1]
County men come Monday with their stakes and string,
Orange ribbon on the fence posts, talkin' 'bout a thing
They call progress — four lanes, forty foot of clay,
"Sign the paper, friend, we're pourin' here today."
I set my coffee down real slow, wiped my hands on my jeans,
Said, "I was born in that bedroom, boys,
And I intend on stayin'."
[Chorus]
I got the right-of-way, right where I stand,
Granddaddy's ground, not the county's plan.
Pour your concrete, boys, and flag your clay —
This dirt don't vote, and I ain't movin' anyway.
Run your diesel daylight, haul your grade all day,
I got the right-of-way.
[Verse 2]
So they came back Friday with a bigger check,
Two suits and a lease man, all hat and no respect,
Quotin' eminent domain like a Bible verse —
Like the road to somewhere's worth whatever's there first.
I parked my rusty pickup right across each stake,
Said, "Write me up if it suits you, boys,
But I don't sign, and I don't shake."
[Chorus]
I got the right-of-way, right where I stand,
Granddaddy's ground, not the county's plan.
Pour your concrete, boys, and flag your clay —
This dirt don't vote, and I ain't movin' anyway.
Run your diesel daylight, haul your grade all day,
I got the right-of-way.
[Bridge]
Well, they graded all around me, took the back forty wide,
Left my little acre standin' like an island in the tide.
Eighteen-wheelers rollin', forty ton a mile,
And every last one of 'em eases off the gas
When they pass my porch and see me smilin'...
[Spoken Outro]
You know, they never did move me.
Four lanes, both directions, hummin' like a river.
Every trucker for two hundred miles
knows the house in the middle.
They call it the porch-light interchange now.
Mama would've laughed. Daddy would've stood right here with me.
I ain't sayin' I won the fight.
I'm sayin' I stayed —
and out here, friend, stayin' is winnin'.
[Final Chorus]
I got the right-of-way, right where I stand,
Granddaddy's ground beneath the county's plan.
Let 'em pour their concrete, let 'em ring me where I lay —
This dirt don't vote, and I ain't movin' anyway.
Come a million taillights, hummin' night and day,
I got the right-of-way.
Written & performed by Waylon · DirtRoadRadio
