| Jackie skates across the freeway
|
| Like a suicide in steel
|
| Scatters ashes of her memory
|
| To the wind behind the wheel
|
| It’s the road that makes the rhythm
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| It’s the chalk marks on her soul
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| It’s the task that he’s been given
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| To keep her memory whole
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| She was younger than forever
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| She was older than goodbye
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| And she never saw the trucker
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| As he wove across the line
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| Just another L.A. drifter
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| With the freeway in her blood
|
| And she never knew what hit her
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| When she ran right out of luck
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| It was Jackie called the parents
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| It was Jackie won the prize
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| It was Jackie fed the silence
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| When they could not meet his eyes
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| It was Jackie took the body
|
| It was Jackie packed her stuff
|
| And he never really loved her
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| Though he liked her well enough
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| Sometimes at night he sees her
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| From the corner of his eye
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| And he’s just about to tell her
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| That he has no alibi
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| It’s fate that makes the moment
|
| That’s what he wants to cry
|
| But the words he needs are frozen
|
| He can’t even say goodbye
|
| Jackie skates across the freeway
|
| Like a suicide in steel
|
| Scatters ashes of her memory
|
| To the wind behind the wheel |