Tour Ballad Blues
Blow the dust of the record and put the needle down slow, plunge plunge in pulsating vein. Take your razor and cut my line, put your nose against the speaker and breathe in, breathe in. This is our cutthroat high (baby boy).
Records are the glamorous lovers of sweat in a crowded room.
The scenery of my life is yellow lines, concrete, cigarette butts, exhaust fumes and rest stops who drive hard for their bucks. Load out, sound check, play show, load in, let’s go, hey next city. And all the while the make-up won’t stop running and I keep on promising call backs. Brush your hair in the truckstop mirror (baby girl)