The Devil’s Highway, through the desert, to the graves so quiet.
I wait for night, for the moon’s bone glow, the stars run wild.
I wait for the snow now that summer has gone by, a bad dream.
Off the side of the road, smoking a cigarette, laying on the car’s hood,
as I look up at the sky, where little grey men fell down, left for dead.
Another world, just a rich man, with gold in his pockets and knife to our throats.
Angels come through only sometimes, like the cracking up radio stations,
as I drive onwards to whatever bad dreams are yet to come, like Obsolescence.
They may be there, they may not, but don’t you ever lay even money on it.
And the first snowflakes fall into my naked glow headlights, like gossamer tears.
Stars above, stars below, and maybe we can pretend it’s Eden, the world clean and sweet.
Two thousand miles to go nowhere, but here I am, and the answers are no closer.