The haze of coffin nails and the scent of liquid nerve Swirl through the vacant garden rows The verb coils warm as the check, check, checker Reigns in his ersatz troubadour clothes
The ivory is stale as the company Chestnut roots and fifths bled dry The tired minstrel turns out uninspired words Of hope and change and other statist lies
Cue the garbled sketch of an overpass arena Where Rooster croons for an audience of two Passing pairs of headlights make for transient marquees And the stars guide his fingers in those rusty twelve-bar blues
They start with pilfered wives, then slide to maudlin sighs For his only son who married a machine He flails his head about as his voice grows loud But nothing comes to mind for the turnaround
So he says whoa whoa whoa whoa, don't wanna settle down
Left with the slurred advice "don't depend on anyone," I slowly nod, but purge it from my brain, Assure myself that it's too late, it's too late for that And hope to all that's holy that won't change