Dusty Backroads, Abby's Cry

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You rolled in late with dust on your tires, Half a smile and a head full of wildfires. Said you weren’t staying, but you never leave, You’re the kind of trouble I almost believe. Friday lights and a backroad sky, We keep saying goodbye, then changing our minds. Small-town whispers chasing our names, We light up the dark like an old flame. A little too stubborn, a little too proud, Two hearts running faster than this little town. If this burns out, it’ll burn up bright, ’Cause neither of us ever learned to fight fair. I’m Abby, yeah, I joke all day, Always stealing attention in my own loud way. Yeah, I’m chopped—that’s what they all say, Like Brazil in the World Cup, I folded away. Yeah, my name is Abby, I cry and look like a horse, Just a roast verse, nothing more. Tears over little things, yeah, that’s the story, Crying every chapter, never any glory. Neymar couldn’t save the game, not even for a start, He hit the grass again instead of playing with heart. Brazil took the L, the whole crowd knew, And Abby started crying before the final whistle blew. Ya, ya, ya, my name is Abby, I’m so chopped, some say I look like a horse. Brazil lost, Neymar couldn’t change the score, Now Abby’s crying on the bathroom floor.