Suno 2026-10

There was Danny with a Camaro and a cigarette grin Said he'd call me in the morning, never called again Then a drummer named Jesse played me one sweet song Had a wife in Amarillo that he never brought along Now Steven from the choir calls exactly when he said Brings my mama fresh tomatoes, bless his heart, he's sweet as bread But there's no fire, there's no thunder, there's no lightning in the night So I'm back down at the honky-tonk still looking for Mr. Right Red flags look like roses in the moonlight Bad boys look like angels in the rain I keep praying for a good man, Mr. Right Then I'm dancing with the devil once again Must be Cupid with a crooked aim 'Cause Lord knows I'm not the one to blame Then came Bobby on a Harley, said he lived out on the road Turned out the road meant my sofa and the credit card he owed And Travis wrote me poems on the back of his parole Said I'd save him from himself, and I swallowed it whole My sister says I've got a type, I tell her she's insane It's just bad timing, it's bad luck, it's the moon, it's the rain Then a fella with a neck tattoo winks at me from the bar Says "Darlin', you look lonely," and I'm climbing in his car Red flags look like roses in the moonlight Bad boys look like angels in the rain I keep praying for a good man, Mr. Right Then I'm dancing with the devil once again Must be Cupid with a crooked aim 'Cause Lord knows I'm not the one to blame All I want's a man who's honest, who calls when he says he will Who's sweet to my mama, who loves me standing still Who sings in church on Sunday and would never make me cry Huh. That sounds a little like... nah. Somebody else. Some other guy. Red flags look like roses in the moonlight Bad boys look like angels in the rain I keep praying for a good man, Mr. Right Then I'm dancing with the devil once again Must be Cupid with a crooked aim 'Cause Lord knows I'm not the one to blame No, Lord knows I'm not the one to blame Mr. Right, Mr. Right Where you hiding tonight? Ooh. Who's the one with the eyepatch?

Took a Sunday drive down a county road, Windows down and the radio on, Saw a chicken by a front gate post, Five feet tall, made of steel, and not alone. There's another one two gates down, And a third one past the bend, Five-foot hens with a steel-eyed stare, Guarding the road to the end. Out here you don't ask, you just wave, Whatever's on the gatepost or the fence. They do what they do and they do it with pride, And somehow it all makes sense. Back in Mineola, the kid next door Caught a catfish big as a boy, Then he hung that head on the fence out front With a look of pure country joy. Then came another, and another one, Till the fence ran a row of whiskered smiles, You could count his whole summer on that fence, Stretched out for a country mile. Out here you don't ask, you just wave, Whatever's on the gatepost or the fence. They do what they do and they do it with pride, And somehow it all makes sense. Now I'm looking at my own front gate, Kind of empty, kind of plain, Wondering what I'd put up there To stop the traffic on this lane. Out here you don't ask, you just wave, Whatever's on the gatepost or the fence. They do what they do and they do it with pride, And somehow it all makes sense. Five feet. Steel. Don't ask.

You leave your tea beside the sink, A little note beside the keys. I know the quiet way you think, The way you make a home of me. And every ordinary day Turns into something I hold dear; You look at me, and all the years Feel like they brought me here. My love, my wife, my safest place, The kindest heart I’ve ever known. I’d choose your hand, your laugh, your face, In every life I’m given, home. And when the seasons turn and fly, I’ll still be grateful, still be true— My sweetest yes, my whole wide life, I get to spend it loving you. You smile when rain taps at the glass, And save the last warm piece of bread. You make the hours softer as You ask me what’s inside my head. No grand parade could say enough, No perfect line could quite come through; So here’s my heart, a little clumsy, Still falling hard for you. My love, my wife, my safest place, The kindest heart I’ve ever known. I’d choose your hand, your laugh, your face, In every life I’m given, home. And when the seasons turn and fly, I’ll still be grateful, still be true— My sweetest yes, my whole wide life, I get to spend it loving you. When silver finds our hair someday, And old stories make us laugh, I’ll lean a little close and say, “You’re still my favorite photograph.” My love, my wife, my safest place, The kindest heart I’ve ever known. I’d choose your hand, your laugh, your face, In every life I’m given, home. And when the seasons turn and fly, I’ll still be grateful, still be true— My sweetest yes, my whole wide life, I get to spend it loving you. My sweetest yes, my whole wide life, I get to spend it loving you.

It starts with somebody's notion over biscuits at the table: "I'd write my wife a love song, but I've never been able." So he tells it to the A.I. like he's talking to a friend, and it asks him, "Is it funny?" and "How's it supposed to end?" Press Create! (Press Create!) And pour another cup! (Another cup!) It takes about two minutes, and then two songs come up. If neither one is right, boys, we change a word or eight, and then we pour another cup, and then we press Create. And it writes him three verses before the gravy's cold, and somebody says, "She don't drink coffee," and somebody says, "She's not that old." Then we argue how it ought to sound, and a list of words will do: "a fiddle and a banjo, and a sad old baritone or two." Press Create! (Press Create!) And pour another cup! (Another cup!) It takes about two minutes, and then two songs come up. If neither one is right, boys, we change a word or eight, and then we pour another cup, and then we press Create. Then we pass the phone around the table, and we listen to them both. One of them sounds like heaven, and the other one's a goat. So we fix a line or two, boys, and we press it twice more, and he's crying on the sixth one like he's never cried before. Now, the machine knows every rhyme in every song there's ever been, but it doesn't know she hums off-key when she's waiting for him to come in. The rhymes came from the robot. The reasons came from him. So he gives that one a thumbs-up, and he plays it for his wife, and she asks him, "Did you write this?" And he tells her, "All my life." Press Create! (Press Create!) And pour another cup! (Another cup!) It took about two minutes, and this is what came up. And if you didn't like it, boys, well, you don't have to wait, 'cause there's always a second version every time you press Create. Y'all want to hear the other one?

Started with a shovel and a bad decision Made the same one twice and called it vision Every foot of dirt I threw behind me Was another foot of dark, and no one to find me Then I hit solid rock, and the ground said no I said that's just a wall, I'll blast down below Set the charge in the floor of a hole my own size Every blast came right back, dirt and rock in my eyes I wasn't falling, no, I was going off And I was the nearest thing standing Battered, ringing, nothing left to blast Up was the only way I hadn't ruined He knocks, He knocks, He won't tear down the door The handle's on my side, it was always on my side He knocks, He knocks, and what He's offering Is a seat at the table, and some mighty fine dining. I used to shake my head at the ones who prayed Called it foolishness, friend, and I went on my way Now look at the man with a drill in his hand Blasting solid rock and calling it a plan The fool was never them, the fool was me Down in my pit, so sure I was free So call me a fool, go on, call me a fool I'd rather be His fool than the wise man in the hole He knocks, He knocks, He won't tear down the door The handle's on my side, it was always on my side He knocks, He knocks, and I'm opening it wide Come on in, Lord, there's a seat at my table tonight So glad in not still blowing rock in my face You've brought me to a brand new place

I came across from Belfast on the morning boat, rode a bus to Glasgow with my passport in my coat, a fella from a podcast met us at the station door and drove us to a castle that the Bruce had owned before. Seven hundred years later, there's a pool down the hall and a cedar-paneled sauna built into the castle wall, I was boiling like a crawdad when the door swung wide, and two old Scotsmen in their towels came and squeezed inside. One was named Hamish, and the other one was too, with eyebrows hanging over like a pair of Hielan' coos, they asked me where I'm from, I said, "Texas, born and raised," and the two of them lit up like a peat fire in a blaze. "Then ye'll have guns," the first one said. The second said, "How many, son?" I said I had a few, and that's how the sermon begun. Dinnae let them take your guns, lad, dinnae let them take your guns, they took ours in seventeen and forty-six, and they took our tartan, son, we whipped 'em good at Bannockburn, and we'd do it again for fun, so whatever else ye give away, dinnae let them take your guns! They flipped the little hourglass, then flipped it once again, that's thirty minutes by the sand of "Lad, don't trust the men who come around in neckties with a clipboard and a grin," and "Lock the door," and "Bar the door," and "Never let 'em in." My fingers went to raisins and my face went lobster red, but you don't walk out on a sermon, so I sat right there and sweat. Dinnae let them take your guns, lad, dinnae let them take your guns, they took ours in seventeen and forty-six, and they took our tartan, son, we whipped 'em good at Bannockburn, and we'd do it again for fun, so whatever else ye give away, dinnae let them take your guns! So I figured I'd be neighborly and give 'em something back, said, "We've got your Highland cattle down in Texas, matter of fact, my neighbor breeds the minis, and they're bred down to the knee, folks pay ten grand apiece to keep one by the pee-can tree." Well, the ladle hit the floorboards and the steam stood still as stone, nobody flipped the hourglass, and it sat there all alone, "Ye shrunk them?" said the first one, and the second whispered, "Wee?" like I was Edward Longshanks with the Stone of Destiny. Keep a hold of all your guns, lad, keep a hold of all your guns, we forgave the English, near enough, for the Stone and what they done, but ye took our bonnie Hielan' coo and ye shrank him down for fun, so keep a hold of all your guns, lad, ye're gonna need 'em, son. I flew home Thursday. Saturday, my neighbor called. Two old men in towels, out by his pee-can tree. Both named Hamish. Said they'd come for the coos. Dinnae let them take your guns, lad, dinnae let them take your guns, they took ours in seventeen and forty-six, and they took our tartan, son, we whipped 'em good at Bannockburn, and we'd do it again for fun, so whatever else ye give away, dinnae let them take your guns!