A.I.S.C - Born in Tennessee

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Down where the fire meets the water,
Where the old hills know your name.
Some things only get better,
When you give them time and flame.

Born in Tennessee,
Made by fire, aged by time.
From a small town road
To a million neon signs.
Raise it slow, let the story breathe,
There's a little Lynchburg in every glass.
From the barrel to the melody,
Old Number 7, born in Tennessee.

There's a little town in Tennessee,
Where the limestone water runs clean.
Maple burning underneath the night,
Turning black before it turns things right.

Copper breathing, slow and low,
Every drop knows where to go.
Through the charcoal, inch by inch,
Nothing rushed in old Lynchburg.

Then the oak takes hold of time,
Smoke and vanilla intertwine.
Summer heat gets in the grain,
Winter pulls it back again.

Years go by without a sound,
While the barrels breathe in Tennessee.
You can change the world outside,
But some things should be made with pride.

They say the number keeps its secret,
Maybe that's the way it should.
Some legends live a little longer,
When nobody says they understood.

There's an old safe in an office,
And a story people still recall.
A young Jack learned the craft from Nearest,
Where patience mattered more than speed.

Generations kept it moving,
Hands that learned from hands before.
Fire, water, grain and timber,
Nothing less and nothing more.

From a backroad into rock and roll,
From Nashville lights to Tokyo.
The world got fast, the bottle stayed,
Still remembering how it was made.

No shortcut to a good thing,
No clock can make it right.
You give the wood the summer,
You give the fire the night.

You give the years their silence,
Let every season leave a sign.
Some things are made in factories,
Some things are made by time.

Fire.
Water.
Oak.
Time.

From Lynchburg to the world.
Born in Tennessee.

3027/7500

Down where the fire meets the water, Where the old hills know your name. Some things only get better, When you give them time and flame. Born in Tennessee, Made by fire, aged by time. From a small town road To a million neon signs. Raise it slow, let the story breathe, There's a little Lynchburg in every glass. From the barrel to the melody, Old Number 7, born in Tennessee. Born in Tennessee, Made by fire, aged by time. From a small town road To a million neon signs. Raise it slow, let the story breathe, There's a little Lynchburg in every glass. From the barrel to the melody, Old Number 7, born in Tennessee. There's a little town in Tennessee, Where the limestone water runs clean. Maple burning underneath the night, Turning black before it turns things right. Copper breathing, slow and low, Every drop knows where to go. Through the charcoal, inch by inch, Nothing rushed in old Lynchburg. Then the oak takes hold of time, Smoke and vanilla intertwine. Summer heat gets in the grain, Winter pulls it back again. Years go by without a sound, While the barrels breathe in Tennessee. You can change the world outside, But some things should be made with pride. Born in Tennessee, Made by fire, aged by time. From a small town road To a million neon signs. Raise it slow, let the story breathe, There's a little Lynchburg in every glass. From the barrel to the melody, Old Number 7, born in Tennessee. They say the number keeps its secret, Maybe that's the way it should. Some legends live a little longer, When nobody says they understood. There's an old safe in an office, And a story people still recall. A young Jack learned the craft from Nearest, Where patience mattered more than speed. Generations kept it moving, Hands that learned from hands before. Fire, water, grain and timber, Nothing less and nothing more. From a backroad into rock and roll, From Nashville lights to Tokyo. The world got fast, the bottle stayed, Still remembering how it was made. Born in Tennessee, Made by fire, aged by time. From a small town road To a million neon signs. Raise it slow, let the story breathe, There's a little Lynchburg in every glass. From the barrel to the melody, Old Number 7, born in Tennessee. Born in Tennessee, Made by fire, aged by time. From a small town road To a million neon signs. Raise it slow, let the story breathe, There's a little Lynchburg in every glass. From the barrel to the melody, Old Number 7, born in Tennessee. No shortcut to a good thing, No clock can make it right. You give the wood the summer, You give the fire the night. You give the years their silence, Let every season leave a sign. Some things are made in factories, Some things are made by time. Born in Tennessee, Made by fire, aged by time. From a small town road To a million neon signs. Raise it slow, let the story breathe, There's a little Lynchburg in every glass. From the barrel to the melody, Old Number 7, born in Tennessee. Fire. Water. Oak. Time. From Lynchburg to the world. Born in Tennessee.

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