I sit waiting on September Rain - 
On the day the swallows fly. 
My two cats sleep out in the backyard breeze 
On weeds the sun’s turned brown and dry. 

Though we’re tapping on October’s door 
This Indian Summer won’t let go. 
It’s got me waitin’ on September Rain. 
Watchin’ another year, growin’ old. 

I’ll drive 40 miles to town tonight — 
To play a bar room with no stage. 
Surrounded by the smoke -- 
As all the cell phone ring 
I’ll sing the songs that pay my way. 

Inside the songs—that safe, exciting world: 
I soar above my jukebox fate. 
And I stop waiting on September Rain: 
‘Cause in the stories -- I escape. 

It’s three thousand miles to their winter homes. 
On just a pair of feathered wings. 
With no compass, chart, no-o-o radar beam, 
Just the flock’s “dead reckoning.” 

Back in the fields, the last few swallows fly-- 
Headed south ‘til May next year-- 
They leave me waiting on September Rain, 
Dreamin’ I might make too, next year. 
As I sit waiting on September Rain 
In this jukebox life that keeps me here.