Better Keep Her
Every toolbox is missing a ten-millimeter socket, and he found his in a ball-cap girl who finds the lost one for him under the kitchen sink.
Every toolbox is missing a ten-millimeter socket, and he found his in a ball-cap girl who finds the lost one for him under the kitchen sink.
You can pay it off fair and square, and somebody still has a hand out.
He built rockets at Redstone and got beat by a popsicle stick star glued together by his four year old.
Waiting on his wife to make it home from a twelve hour ER shift on Christmas, one mile at a time.
The Christmas story told plain. He came for the broken, and He called your name.
Sixty two degrees and raining, cornbread in the skillet, and nowhere he would rather be.
Cotton in the field instead of snow, every chair filled, and the missing names said out loud.
Somebody is still out on the road at Christmas. The porch light stays on.
Four years old and too wound up to sleep, then years later standing on the other side of it.
Ninety minutes in a waiting room, so he mailed the doctor an invoice. True story.
Friday night fight song for the Arab Knights. Blue and white, stands packed, nobody sitting down.
Locked out by one more password. For anybody who never asked for all this.
Neon, a packed floor and a girl who can move. Turn it up and do not think too hard.
Work boots by the door before sunup. Built by hand, built to stand.
Hometown pride from the town whose name came back misspelled and stayed that way. One letter off, and proud of it.
A man takes the blame for a killing to protect the little girl he never got to claim as his own.
Her mama says he is trouble and the whole town agrees. She keeps calling anyway.
The whole family piles in, and for one day the old house forgets how old it is.
Burnt turkey, a leaning tree, and not a saint in the house. He would not change a thing.
A hundred people in the room and she walks in. Everything else goes quiet.
One iced in night, one power outage, and a boy with her smile and his blue eyes.
She is loud, she is chaos, she backed through the mailbox. She is exactly his speed.
She packed up and rolled out, and it still is not far enough.
A flirty, full throttle run at somebody, built on a basketball hook.
Friday night on the dirt roads. Four wheel drive, windows down, nowhere to be.
She laughs with his family like she has been there all her life, and he cannot look anywhere else.
A Southern Christmas kitchen. Pie on the counter, fire going, dancing while it snows outside.
Highway 59 to sugar white sand, Gulf shrimp on the table, and no shoes required.
He left home at eighteen certain he knew better. That bell kept ringing him back.
A small town knows your business before you do, and shows up when the floor drops out.
He tells the breakup story to anybody who asks. Every word is true, and he leaves out his own part.
Two kids, a moonlit dirt road, and right now instead of forever.
He knows her coffee and her side of the bed. Her heart keeps changing, and he is still learning it.
What really happened the night that marriage ended, and what pride cost him after.
A grandson asks what his grandpa would make of the country he fought for.
Grandma spills a bowl of peaches to make a point. Cut out the bruise and keep what is still good.
He had to leave Alabama to find out his roots never went anywhere.
Black hat low, boots on the beat, one slow look across a crowded floor.
They met through a friend, a hospital front desk and an IT badge. The promise he made after has not moved since.
Written for his daughter. An old guitar, the years that got away, and finding their way back.
A four year old hands him everything broken, certain her daddy can fix it.
All original songs are written and sung by Chad Sanders. Chad records his own vocals and guitar, while additional instrumentation may be created using AI-assisted virtual instruments and multitrack production.
HOW THE MUSIC IS MADE →