| Miss Misfortune sails down the rails with her brow to the windowpane
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| The scenery that she sees in her soul doesn’t match with the blur in her brain
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| Oh, she can trace the tricks of the tracks like the ribs of a rattlesnake
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| ‘Til all her pastel chalk lines of fact are erased like a schoolgirl’s slate
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| She is reading her own tattoos
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| Her diary is the evening news
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| She can’t give a damn on cue
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| On a freight train to nowhere
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| Hey, if she were not scorching the rails with the haste of a bolting ghost
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| there would be no reason to fear the death rattle in the engine’s throat
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| She could call for the mini-cams, or take up a gun, or be politically correct
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| But that kind of justice still preys on the ones with the stones hung around
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| their necks
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| Oh, she’s reading her own tattoos
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| Her diary is the evening news
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| And she can’t give a damn on cue
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| On a freight train to nowhere
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| She’s heard it said, by the drone in her head, that the wages of spend is debt
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| She figures that’s better than nothing to show for the years of tears and sweat
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| If she could put her hand on the brake of the land, find the treason in the
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| diesel and the smoke, she would jar the teeth of the dull and the meek and feed
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| them the truth until they choke
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| She is reading her own tattoos
|
| Her diary is the evening news
|
| She can’t give a damn on cue
|
| On a freight train to nowhere
|
| She is reading her own tattoos
|
| Her diary is the evening news
|
| And she can’t give a damn on cue
|
| On a freight train to nowhere |