| It was a birthday gift
|
| of a Mexican Telecaster
|
| And from this day on I will play along
|
| to all my young pioneers records
|
| And there will be a poetry spoken silently between me and the stereo
|
| I’ll work mornings
|
| and you can work through the night
|
| Mary, there is no hope for us If this GM van don’t make it across the state line
|
| we might as well lay down and die
|
| Because if Florida takes us we’re taking everyone down with us Where we’re coming from (yeah)
|
| will be the death us And I cannot help but hold on to a handful of times
|
| when what was spoken
|
| was a revolution in itself,
|
| and what we were doing
|
| was the only thing that mattered
|
| And how good it felt
|
| to kill the memory of nights spent
|
| holding your shirt for the smell
|
| I heard you used to cry
|
| when you made love to him
|
| but this band will play on Because all we can do is what we’ve always done.
|
| And on and on and on… |