| Clouds flash up ahead
|
| «Just heat lightning,» he thinks
|
| No rain for the flames
|
| Yeah
|
| Death rides at night in a copper Pinto
|
| Candy in the glove box where a revolver would go
|
| His bones are trapped in greasy fat and he’s
|
| Shaking as he laughs at
|
| Jokes about the weather and news from the fire at the mill
|
| Letting parched mosquitoes drink their fill
|
| Between his knuckles on the wheel while he
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| Laughs like baby pigs squeal
|
| Pale eyes, huge, behind thick glasses
|
| Speeding through lights, turning green as he passes
|
| Says, «Weathermen are worse than those tarot card teens
|
| They can’t explain every little thing
|
| I don’t care what they say, ain’t gonna rain
|
| Fires aren’t made just to be tamed»
|
| Yeah
|
| Death pulls off to piss in a patch of dry weeds
|
| Aiming at every lightning bug he sees
|
| Hears a creature crying from a ditch
|
| You know death just can’t resist it
|
| He looks at all the models on the billboards going by
|
| Thinking of X’s in their eyes
|
| He smiles at his wandering mind while he’s
|
| Glowing in the moonlight
|
| The radio turns to static
|
| He sticks his hand out the window
|
| And winces at the first drops of rain, yeah
|
| Huh
|
| Says, «Weathermen are worse than those palm reading freaks
|
| They can’t explain every little thing
|
| I don’t care what they say about the rain
|
| It’s not stopping in a day, ain’t no way
|
| It’s not gonna end 'til every coffin’s swimming» |