Derived from Kenny Chesney’s “Boys of Fall”
We won’t feel that chill or smell that fresh cut grass.
I’m packing up my helmet, cleats, and shoulder pads.
Standing away from a huddle, won’t hear a call.
No fans going crazy for the boys of fall.
No knees will be taken to protest the stars and stripes.
No fighting back them butterflies.
No coins flipping.
No field goals missing.
No knocking heads or talking trash.
No mud will be slung amongst dirt and grass
No one’s got my number,
No one’s got my back.
There are no boys of fall.