| A white ghost, making his way up the west coast
|
| Trying to focus his high hopes on a vagina or two
|
| He’s taking his chances
|
| Meanwhile, back in his living room
|
| Bright smiles are watching his toddler run speed trials
|
| Over a grandmother’s rug
|
| And nature advances
|
| Up the interstate
|
| He’s been awake
|
| And pretty drunk for three whole days
|
| No one wants to stop
|
| Until they get to where they’re going
|
| I’ll get to where I’m going --
|
| Pretty soon
|
| So he takes another drink
|
| 'Cause watching the scenery bleed
|
| Into each similar scene
|
| Isn’t as sweet as it had been in his dreams
|
| It’s faster to buy cigarettes and some cold beer
|
| If you don’t rattle the cashier
|
| By asking her back to your room
|
| She’s calling security
|
| Our car’s on fire in the parking lot
|
| And nobody wants it to rain
|
| But God isn’t listening
|
| So all of the windshields glisten
|
| The water and oil mix
|
| Causing the fire to spread
|
| To five or six
|
| Innocent automobiles
|
| Waiting in their nearby spots
|
| What a cruel God we’ve got
|
| Right on, right on, right on
|
| Right on, right on
|
| Right on, right on, right on
|
| Right on, right on
|
| So he takes another drink
|
| 'Cause watching the formula bleed
|
| Into each similar theme
|
| Isn’t as sweet as it had been in his dreams |