| Photographs of the best time you had,
|
| windows smugded by the speed.
|
| Leaving home with our bags from Iron Street,
|
| as morning turned into California,
|
| And smoke trailed from the butt of my cigarette.
|
| Our glass house it threw rocks at all those it past.
|
| Waking up to the sound of 5 A.M. |
| to take my turn at the wheel.
|
| Climbed up Shasta, oh how the engine ached
|
| as the sun tortured California,
|
| and old alleys turned deep at the heart of me.
|
| Murals of heros defacing the blank concrete.
|
| Vision tunneled, Mission Street, hunger beat
|
| lodged out as the engine wheezed.
|
| Still moving regardless of stable ground
|
| and this stable ground.
|
| Photographs of the best time you had,
|
| windows smugded by the speed.
|
| Leaving home with our bags from Iron street
|
| as morning turned into California. |