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Songwriting

Farmer's Daughter

Reflection

Published alongside Field After Field, Song After Song, a reflection on the long Saturday drives my dad, my brother, and I made across Southwest Georgia in the 1990s, checking rain gauges for a local peanut company. From field to field and county to county, all while 90s country music poured through the open windows of an old truck and carried us through the heat, dust, backroads, and memory of those days.

Lyrics

Farmer's Daughter

Sun’s dippin’ down like a fishing lure
Cruisin’ in the country where the air is pure
I’m pulling up slow in a beat-up Ford
She’s hoppin’ in saying, “Thank the Lord!”
She’s got those cutoffs on and a tan-line smile
Saying, “Hey baby, let’s drive a while…”
Don’t need a map, don’t need a plan
Just a touch of her hand and the night just began

The preacher’s still talkin’ ‘bout the promised land
But I got a little piece of it holdin’ my hand
Yeah we’re lockin’ it in, we’re shiftin’ it down
Leavin’ the lights of this sleepy-eyed town

     Seminole Wind over muddy water
     Ridin’ with a Wild One, the farmer’s daughter
     Under that big bright Neon Moon
     Blasting Chattahoochee to a backbeat boom
     Friends in Low Places raising ’em high
     Baby Likes to Rock It shaking the sky
     Young, dumb, a little Dust On the Bottle
     Time Marches On, no throttle

Check the rearview, yeah the dust is high
Like a Georgia storm in the July sky
She’s got her boots on the dash, singin’ every word
Prettiest harmony I ever heard
We’re crankin’ up the radio, yeah we’re ready to go
Taking it fast while we’re living it slow
Ain’t nothing changed since ’94
‘cept the speakers hit a little bit more

The preacher’s still talking ‘bout the promised land
But I got a little piece of it on her left hand
Yeah we’re lockin’ it in, we’re shiftin’ it down
Still the talk of this sleepy-eyed town

     Repeat Chorus

We killed the engine by the riverside
Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
She’s tasting sweeter than muscadine wine
Yeah, I’m gonna love her for a long, long time
Radio hummin’ low, holdin’ us tight
She’s leanin’ on me, feels so right
Yeah, the static is fuzzy, but the feeling is clear
It’s always a Friday night when we’re out here

     Repeat Chorus

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Copyright

Lyrics: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

I'll Be Damned

Reflection

Some roads don't take you anywhere new; the ones that drag you back to what you can't forget.

For me, that’s the haunted stretch of State Road 39 that pulls away just north of the Miller County line, past my Grandaddy’s broken fences and the hard-baked clay ruts. It's where the world closes in around the pines and pastures, and you're just waiting to see what the afternoon is going to break next.

I never had the luxury of romanticizing this place. I was raised to be useful to a land that looks peaceful on a postcard but cuts deep when you’re trapped inside it. Where the stench of diesel and manure hangs heavy, and hardship settles onto your shoulders the same way the red dirt stains your boot seams.

These songs are how I drag those memories into the light.

They're written for the folks who carry the weight in total silence, only to get up tomorrow and do it all over again.

Lyrics

I'll Be Damned

Morning breaks like bad news
Over land that never speaks
Wind moves through the dead rows
Like it’s lookin’ for relief
Daddy’s boots by the back door
Dirt already on my hands
I was barely old enough
To know the weight of this damn land

     It’ll feed you, it’ll fight you
     Make you curse and make you pray
     And every year I tell myself
     This’ll be the year I walk away

     This is where the strong stay silent
     And the weak don’t last too long
     Where hope is just a habit
     And quittin’ feels too wrong
     Yeah, the roots go deep and the debt is steep
     And the devil holds my hand
     If I’m leavin’, I’ll be bleedin’
     If I’m stayin’, I’ll be damned

Iron breaks in the July heat
Right when the rain is runnin’ late
Banker’s callin’, diesel’s climbin’
Staring down an open gate
Old men nod across the fence line
Knowin’ what I just can’t say
You don’t choose this kind of livin’
It just bleeds into your veins

     Repeat Pre-Chorus

     Repeat Chorus

Red dust settled on the dash
Sweat dryin’ on my shirt
Yeah, every road around here
Starts and ends in dirt
You can tell yourself a story
But the ground don’t care at all
It just holds what we leave it
When our names quit gettin’ called

     Repeat Chorus

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Copyright

Lyrics: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

Hay for the Heifers

Reflection

Farm work looks noble from a distance, viewed through the softening lens of years gone by.

But it was just sweat, salt, and the inescapable gravity of a bloodline leading ahead of us on a rusted tractor seat. It was the kind of grit that settled into our joints and became part of our posture, a permanent inheritance.

It was an education in endurance, watching our Grandad’s back silhouette against the suffocating heat haze while my brother and I moved in a wordless, desperate rhythm below, reading each other's every breath because there wasn't room for anything else.

We learned early on that love between us wasn’t spoken. It was thrown, caught, stacked, and suffered through together. Yet, there was a heavy, almost sacred grace found at the barn at dusk, when the Massey finally choked out, the dust began to sink, and the pine shadows stretched long enough to let us finally clear our lungs.

This song is a reminder of those long afternoons left behind, side-by-side.

Lyrics

HAY FOR THE HEIFERS

The sun’s a red eye peeking o’er the Georgia pines
Grandad’s on the seat, keeping everything in line
That Massey belching out the blackest of smoke
If this baler misses ties, boys, it ain't no joke
The peanut vines are cured, they’re gold and dry
We’re kicking up a grit-cloud reaching for the sky

     Baling square bales in the heat and the haze
     Chasing down the harvest in a dusty-red daze
     Stack ‘em on the trailer, keep the corners tight
     Building up a mountain ‘neath the afternoon sky
     It’s hay for the heifers, it’s gold for the herd
     Sweating ‘til we’re finished, Lord, you have my word

That trailer’s getting long and it’s sagging in the middle
The dry vines are humming like a low-tuned fiddle
I’m standing on the edge, catching the bails on the fly
Dust in my throat and a sting in my eye
Grandad shifts a gear, we feel a jerk and a sway
We’re heavy-loaded, headed for the barn today

Back at the barn, the shadows stretching long and lean
The sweetest smelling hay-house that you’ve ever did seen
Back that Massey up, let the iron engine roar
We’ll stack ‘em to the rafters, all the way from the floor
The cows are in the lot and they’re bellerin’ low
They know that candy’s got the winter-time glow

     Repeat Chorus

Yeah, stack ‘em high
Keep 'em square
Oh, that hay is everywhere
It’s hay for the heifers, gold for the herd

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Copyright

Lyrics: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

Seminole Clay

'73 Alday Murders

The Alday murders didn’t end at the graveside in May 1973. They cast a long shadow over Seminole County, Georgia, forever altering the lives of those left behind and reshaping the community’s very character. Six members of the Alday family were brutally taken at once, leaving their survivors grappling with profound grief and the weight of seeing their family name forever entwined with tragedy. The farm that had sustained generations eventually passed from the family’s hands, a somber reminder of the devastation wrought by the killings.

The murders shattered the sense of rural security that had once prevailed. Neighbors learned to lock their doors with newfound anxiety, and a community accustomed to trust found itself living in a state of suspicion and fear.

As the years stretched into decades of trials, appeals, and public debate, the wounds of the Alday murders remained open and festered, fueled by frustrations over the slow pace of justice.

The events of the Alday murders continue to resonate in South Georgia’s collective memory. The Alday name has transcended its historical significance, becoming a symbol of loss, a testament to the weathered state of the community, and a haunting reminder of the enduring impact that tragedies can have on lives.

Lyrics

SEMINOLE CLAY

The hay was heavy, the humidity high
Just a Monday under a South Georgia sky
A quiet dirt road, nothing out of place
While strangers moved silent through borrowed space
They’d come down south from a prison line
Three from Maryland, leaving the law behind
A stolen car cooling in the yard that day
While the red dust hung and the fields stood gray

     And the wind don’t blow through the wiregrass no more
     Not the way that it used to blow before
     There’s a stain on the harvest, a shadow on the sun
     And the devil used a stranger’s hand to hold a gun
     You can plow the earth and pray for rain to fall
     But there’s six empty chairs against the kitchen wall
     Yeah, the blood runs deep in the Seminole clay

They were fathers, they were brothers, they were working men
Walking through the doorway like they’d always been
One by one, they were taken inside
Bound by fear with nowhere to hide
Then Mary pulled in, never turned away
She was taken from her home that afternoon in May
They carried her out where the pinewoods stand
And left her with the fire ants on the family land

We used to leave the keys inside the truck
We used to trust in God and trust in luck
But luck ran out in May of ‘73
And it never came back to this county

     Repeat Chorus

The trials ran long, and the years ran slow
Through the appeals, the cells, and the death-row
Some met the lightning or the needle's sting
But a verdict don't bring back the breath of things
No war was declared, no sirens gave a sound
Just six good souls laid in the cold, hard ground

So if you pass through Seminole, tread lightly evermore
Cause the ghosts are waiting by that trailer door
Yeah, the blood runs deep
In the Seminole clay

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI) Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved. Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419 Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Copyright

Lyrics: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

Hard Days

Reflection

On a flight to Vermont, after the death of my nephew this past Winter, I wrote this song about the quiet, isolating gravity of depression. It’s the kind that makes the floor feel like the only safe place to look, because looking up feels like asking for too much.

We spend so much time trying to outrun our own shadows, forgetting that they only exist because there's a light somewhere behind us.

This song is for the heavy hours, for those Lost in Shades of "I'm Okay", and for anyone carrying a weight they can’t quite put into words.

Lyrics

HARD DAYS

I see you staring at the floorboards
Like they’re fixin’ to give way
Tracing every crooked crack
Lost in shades of “I’m okay”
The world is getting louder
You’re moving in reverse
And every breath you’re taking now
Feels borrowed, feels like a curse

You’ve been carrying that mountain
Since the sun went down
Just trying to keep your head
Above where you would drown

     The hard days don’t get the final say
     Even when you’re fighting just to make it through the day
     Hold on like a spark in rain
     Yeah, the darkness never learns your name

If you’re out there hovering
Somewhere this side of gone
Listen to me clearly now
You don’t have to be so strong
There’s a seat here at the table
And it’s yours, no questions now
And your worth is never measured
By your fear or by your doubt

It’s okay to crack and break
Okay to feel small
This ain’t where your story ends
It’s only just a wall

     Repeat Chorus

The ceiling’s feeling heavy
The air is thick as lead
And the lies begin to circle
Every corner of your head
You think you’re just a burden
Like a bad debt or a ghost
But you’re the very thing
This broken world needs most

Don’t trust the shadows
When they’re whispering, no
Don’t believe it’s better
To just let it go
The sun is a promise
The night can’t outrun
So stay through the shadows
Stay ‘til the dawn comes

Yeah, the hard days
Don’t get the final say
Even when you’re fighting
Just to make it through the day
Hold on like a spark in rain
Yeah, the darkness
Was never made to stay

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Copyright

Lyrics: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

Out of Time

Reflection

Earlier this year, while walking a nearby trail, the wind through the trees pulled my mind toward the world of Twin Peaks. In that atmosphere, a song idea hit me with such clarity that I had to stop and write it down right there.

The song is a "what-if" scenario that peers into the final, silent hours of Agent Dale Cooper. It asks: what if he was truly in love with Audrey Horne, but too afraid to admit it to himself?

I imagined him alone in his hotel room at the Great Northern, just before the end, finally confronting the truth he was too disciplined to reach for when it was right in front of him. In this moment, he realizes that his badge and his protocols weren't just signs of duty, but a shadow he hid behind to avoid the vulnerability of a dream he was too afraid to join.

I wanted to translate that regret into a song that captures being "out of time" in every sense:

  • Realizing the truth only when the opportunity has vanished.

  • Being eternally suspended in the static of the Black Lodge, where that final moment of regret loops forever.

It’s a confession meant for a tape recorder that might never be heard, a trade of every Bureau secret for one more chance to sit in a booth at the Double R and tell her it was always her.

Lyrics

OUT OF TIME

Black coffee, white noise, headlights in the rain
Late-night diner, Double R calling out my name
You move like you remember what I can’t explain
Like a photograph that shifted when I looked away

     Every little signal bends when you walk in
     The words turn to static, then they start again
     If you’re a warning, I don’t care
     I’m already there

     Meet me where the neon lies
     Nothing here is real tonight
     In the pines the truth rewinds
     And your eyes don’t match your eyes
     Say you’re mine, say you’re mine
     Even if it’s out of time

Ceiling fan confession turning slow above the bed
Tape hiss in the background, words you never said
Your touch is like a code I almost understand
But the closer I get, the more it slips out of my hands

     Repeat Prechorus

     Repeat Chorus

Red curtain in my mind, I can’t find the door
Steps echo backward across the checkered floor
If I say it plain, it breaks, so I speak in waves
Pull me through the static, let me make the same mistakes

     Repeat Chorus

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Copyright

Lyrics: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

Backseat Dream

Reflection

Written from that fragile, beautiful space between waking and sleep, this is a song for the very end of the journey.

It's a prayer for a gentle ending, capturing the trust of finally being too tired, and letting the strong and familiar carry you to through.

Published alongside With a Quiet Hand.

Lyrics

BACKSEAT DREAM

I don’t need a battle at the end of the line
No flash of heaven just to prove I tried
I’ve done my running, I’ve stood my ground
Learned what to carry, what to lay down
White lines hum me home at night
Radio static, borrowed light
If my eyes get heavy, I lose the day
Let it come like sleep, drift my way

No fear, no final stand
Just the weight of a quiet hand

     If I go, let it go easy, slow
     Like a backseat dream heading home
     Lay me down where I understand
     I was loved by a quiet hand
     Let the world keep spinning like it planned
     I’ve seen enough, I’ve been a man
     If I’m leavin’, let it be known
     I was never alone

I loved a woman with a steady light
She made a home, out of restless nights
She knew my sins, she knew my name
She loved me even when I stayed the same
I raised my boys to stand up straight
Taught ’em when to bend, when to wait
If they hear my voice when the house goes still
I hope it sounds like love, not will

     Repeat Chorus

I don’t need angels callin’ me out
No reckoning dressed in fire and doubt
Just cracked doors and familiar sound
Soft footsteps, movin’ around
Let their voices carry me through
Every wrong I couldn’t undo
If there’s a moment where I still stand
It’s muscle memory, holding hands

Mama’s voice from a long-gone year
Shows up, when the road gets weird
That old quilt, that creaky floor
The house breathing at 4 a.m.
If I’m half asleep when the light goes dim
Let me stay right there with them
One last breath, no last command
Let me go with the quiet hand

If I go, let it go easy, slow
Like a backseat dream headin’ home
No grand ending, no final plan
Just a life that loved, a love that ran
Hold me close as long as you can
Let me go
With a quiet hand

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

Papa was a Pepper

Reflection

My Grandaddy was a tough, stubborn, but gentle man who didn't touch beer or liquor, but he worked that South Georgia clay with a furious, sugar-fueled sweat.

He left empty Dr Pepper bottles everywhere. Stacked high under the pole barns, rattling in the bed of his truck, and wedged into the rusty frame of a Massey tractor from the last mow of the pasture.

Whenever the barns got totally full, my brother and I would help him load up the trailer and haul that glass down to the back forty. It was a place we rarely dared to go alone, but there we'd dump them into a hidden ravine where the sun couldn't reach, watching those old styrofoam sleeves peel away from the glass like sunburned skin. They just added to a jagged mountain of thousands of empties resting deep in the damp pine needles.

When the wind came up through those trees, it would blow right across the open bottle necks, making the back woods groan with a heavy, whistling breath.

Lyrics

PAPA WAS A PEPPER

I grew up on a patch of that South Georgia red
Following the dust and the things Grandaddy said
Checking the rows in his ole fedora hat
Turning that clay, yeah, he had it down flat
He had cattle in the field, peanuts knee-high
A cane pole waiting when the sun fell in the sky
Working six days, but he never touched a beer
He had a different kind of cooler in the truck all year

He was stubborn as a mule, hard-headed and tough
But he had a sweet tooth for the fizzy stuff
Didn’t need the whiskey, didn't need the wine
He just needed 23 flavors at a time

     Papa was a Pepper
     Lord, he drank ‘em by the case
     Little glass bottles all over the place
     In the barn, in the truck, by the back forty trees
     Stacking up mountains of memories
     If hard work has a flavor, man, you better believe
     It tastes like the doctor to me
     Yeah, Papa was a Pepper

We’d load up the trailer with the empty glass
Styrofoam sleeves blowing in the grass
He hit 93 and he never slowed down
The toughest old man in this whole damn town
Granny said, “Drink Water,” Papa just laughed
Said, “That’s for the catfish, mama don't be daft!”
He’d crack a cold one and he’d give me a wink
Yeah “Life’s too short for a boring old drink!”

     Repeat Chorus

Now the house sits quiet and the garden’s overgrown
But I still feel him when I’m driving back home
He didn’t leave a fortune, didn't leave gold
Just a mountain of stories that’ll never get old

Papa was a Pepper
And I still raise one now and then
To the farmer, the fisherman, my best friend
Yeah, life goes down a little smoother, you see
When you got a little sugar and a family tree
Every time I crack one, man, you better believe
Papa’s right here with me
Yeah, Papa was a Pepper

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

T.J.

Reflection

The post T.J. Came Running is a reflection on that afternoon on my Grandaddy's land and the silence that followed. This song took shape in late 2025, decades after that day, when the grief I still hold had to move through rhyme and meter.

Lyrics

T.J.

The bus brakes hissed on the county tar
Granny sat waiting in that idling car
A '78 Olds, painted midnight blue
Smelling like dust and dried morning dew
We tossed our bags on the back seat
And left downtown for the red-dirt heat
Just an afternoon ride, back to the farm
Before we knew that Granny could do so much harm

     You can pound on the glass till your knuckles go numb
     But the rubber don't care where the power comes from
     He was running on trust, just beating the air
     While she stared at the road like there was nobody there
     It’s a hell of a thing in the rearview pane
     To see heavy blue steel leave a red dirt stain

Crossed the cattle gap, and the suspension groaned
Entering the land that my grandaddy owned
T.J. came running down the long dirt track
With his ears flopped forward and then flying back
Just a happy fat beagle, brown and white
The softest thing running in the afternoon light
He thought he was greeting a friend at the gate
Not a two-ton machine marking his fate

     Repeat Chorus

The thump wasn’t loud, but it shook the frame
And the silence that followed didn't have a name
I looked out the back as the dust settled down
At a patch of red and brown on the clay ground
He was wide open on the homestead road
As I fell next to him

The thump wasn’t loud, but it shook the frame
And the silence that followed didn't have a name
I looked out the back as the dust settled down
At a patch of red and brown on the clay ground
He was wide open on the homestead road
As I fell next to him, under the load
The boy I was died right there in the grit
When the tires kept turning and my world just split

Grandaddy came out with a spade in his hand
Moving like a ghost across the bottomland
He didn't ask questions, he saw what she’d done
Just wiped his forehead in the sinking sun
We buried him deep where the tree line starts
With the sound of that Olds still revving in our hearts
I learned right then what I couldn't unlearn
That the people you love don’t always turn

I stood by the hole
Granddad handled the spade
The dog was broken
Two lives unmade
She went in the kitchen
And the red dirt dried
And a part of me stayed
Where a little soul died

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.

Out on Highway 84

Reflection

This song isn’t a true history, but it is rooted in a true place and the kind of hunger that only bites when you’re young, reckless, and willing to work.

My brother and I spent our summers hauling watermelons and cantaloupes off our Grandaddy’s farm, stacking them into a trailer hitched to an old Massey that had seen better decades. We’d sit for hours on the shoulder of the road under a hand-painted sign, watching the heat shimmer off the asphalt and dreaming the day away once the heavy lifting was done.

There was a jagged kind of freedom in those afternoons. It was the independence of cash in a pocket and the quiet pride of having something the world actually wanted during in the middle of a long, hot day.

This song takes that truth and stretches it until it’s a little more dangerous, landing somewhere in the haze between a memory and a myth. It’s a nod to a specific kind of freedom that you have to earn with your hands and a tribute to South Georgia in July, where the humidity makes the world feel like it’s liquefying around you and you’re just trying to white-knuckle the things that keep you moving.

Lyrics

OUT ON HIGHWAY 84

Asphalt’s bleeding tar, summer of ‘94
Crossed the dry county line on highway 84
Air’s thick as molasses, smell of diesel and pine
I’m perched on this tailgate, just killing off time

Got a hand-painted sign saying "Sweetest in the State"
Two bucks a sugar-baby, 'fore it’s too late
Cicadas are screaming like a choir in the heat
While that South Georgia sun bakes the soles of my feet

     It’s the Fourth of July and the blacktop’s steaming
     Heat off the hood has the whole highway dreaming
     Got a bed full of melons, green gold and deep red
     And a jar of lightning to keep my soul fed
     Let the law keep rolling, let the flags fly high
     Trading in sugar ‘neath the South Georgia sky

A man in a Caddy rolled through the grit
Kicking up the gravel like it owes him rent
I spat a black seed, looked him dead in the eye
Said, "The dirt gave me fruit; the Lord gave me sky"
He bought a thirty-pounder and left in a swirl
Of red clay and gravel at the edge of the world

     Repeat Chorus

Radio static or a preacher with the news
Talking ‘bout the Lord, get your asses in the pews
Deputy rolling, eyeballing the scene
Tip my tattered hat, Lord my record ain’t clean

     Repeat Chorus

Yeah, the summer of ‘94
Out on Highway 84

Writer: J. Ryan Johnson (BMI)
Copyright: © 2026 J. Ryan Johnson. All rights reserved.
Phone: +1 (407) 902-5419
Email: hello [at] tenthirtyam [dot] org

Audio Disclaimer

Lyrics: Original | Audio: AI-Generated

I am a songwriter and a musician, but I am not the voice meant to inhabit these verses.

I've used AI to bridge the gap for the concept demos, crafted to serve as blueprints that capture the genre, tone, and weary soul I hear for each song.

They exist as an invitation, offered in the hope that these lyrics will eventually reach the hands of an artist and storyteller who can bring them fully into the light.

Until then, they remain as they were born: quiet reflections on the grit and grace found just north of the county line.