Letras
With an anonymously-wadded five-dollar tip
We tossed a hundred down the tank and we let'r rip
Down that interstate where our own Eisenhower
Slung the chains around our brains with our own sweat
I may not or I may hang my hat in a Section 8
Yeah but I'm at home within, without a dime or naked
Ah, but there's some achin' in my veins that I just can't figure
That kills and fills me like a slow black coffee-drip
As we retrace the dream of a knock-kneed ballerina
Stone-cold twistin' out our twilight patina
In her pin-drop parlour down south of Nowhere
Floatin' on the edge
Well we played a little two-bit room last night outside of Atlanta
Watched a cover band do one long line off of Mustang Sally
Well it wasn't too debonair between there and Chattanooga
But when I heard that night-train
screech man I was double-sure I was human
He said:
"All aboard! Ye with little holes in your jeans!
Hop on the off-chance that your wife's a-gonna turn out mean!"
Well if you don't pay me what I need to wear a shirt of chambray
It'll suit me fine to take your taxes on that third-shift holiday
Retracing the dream of a knock-kneed ballerina
Stone-cold twistin' out a twilight patina
In her pin-drop parlour down south of Nowhere floating on the edge