Every night I have a dream,
It’s not of the taste of sweet ice cream.
Nor of the white rabbit being late,
It’s of George Strait and me, isn’t that just great?
He is flirtingly sitting there,
While he sings “The Chair”.
His fingers move gracefully on the guitar,
His eyes, twinkling, like a distant star.
His cowboy hat, it sits so smartly,
His bootleg, revealed but partly.
As he sings away his song,
Oh, how I wish for it to be long.
I dread the moment it must end,
Around that unavoidable bend,
For then my dream of George Strait and me,
Will fade out, like a receding sea.
