Lyrics The Trip - Dave Rawlings Machine

The Trip

Whistles blowing, people get on trains
Without knowing where they’re going
Someone’s daughter, someone’s sister
Someone’s teacher going down the road
With a body, a handkerchief
And a hatchet from an unspeakable crime
But there’s no one waiting for them
There’s no judgement down the line
Banjos ring and chickens squall
And little babies crow
The winter leaves, and the spring unwinds
And summer comes again, you know
Pink is the color of my true love’s dress
And black is the color of her heart
But I could never leave old Virginie
And so it never parts
Ebony face, ebony nails
Ebony coffin on the rails
Moving south, C-O-D
Going home to mother
Some said for valor, for glory, for treasure, for pride
Sometimes brother hates brother
So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home
My boots are cracked with road dirt and asphalt
Spit and broken dreams
Chewing gum and safety pins
All would hold me in at the seams
My pegs are loose, my screws too tightly wound to get in tune
But I still try sometimes on those golden summer afternoons
So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home
There’s a picture of an old black man in a beaver hat
He wears a hidden smile and a pair of white spats
Don’t pretend you didn’t notice his stare
You’re edgy and sweating and loaded for bear
The Skeleton’s Dance tonight
Bring your bottle and your boots
And your mandolin that Bianca Alatorre
Tried to shoot
Ah but what’s a bullet hole or two between friends?
And who can say when the well goes dry
Or where the story ends?
So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home
Hotel lives and hotel wives
That come and go with the sheets
But what’s a marriage
If it can’t be held up to kitchen heat?
Once I knew each valley and that beautiful shore
But I don’t go to the summer fair much anymore
So take a trip wherever your conscience says to roam
It’s much too much to try and live a lie at home
Your harmonica is blown, baby
Throw it away
Your denim shirt is ragged
And your dirty collar is frayed
I tried to play my horn for you
But I couldn’t seem to find a note
So I picked up pen and paper
And this is what I wrote
Go take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home