Back when I was 17, my friend, John Dustin, he sold weed
He used to let me smoke for free, so I'd help him make his rounds
He always kept his pager on, 'cause back then nobody had cell phones
He'd get a page, and we'd be gone we must've moved a thousand pounds

God bless the good old days, when all we had to do was ride and blaze
Yeah we'd head out towards Elkhart and cut across the Lost Prairie Lake
Those backroads seem a hundred miles away
God bless the good old days

We'd try to get to school by 8, but most the time we'd roll up late
We'd have eyes as red as hades gate, and we smelled like Cheech & Chong
We'd drop a couple of drops of clear eyes in,
And take one last hit then stroll on in
Chunk the deuce to all our friends, no we couldn't do no wrong

God bless the good old days, when all we had to do was ride and blaze
I can go from Westwood to Montalba, about a hundred different ways
Those backroads seem a thousand miles away
God bless the good old days

Yeah they say that gettin' high, and gettin' stoned
Is an awful waste of time
But the memories that I cherish most are of a fat ass homegrown dime.

God bless the good old days,
When there weren't no mouths to feed or no bills to pay
We'd go all the way to Jacksonville, and never touch highway
Those backroads seem a million miles away
God bless the good old days
God bless the good old days
God bless the good old days