On the Goddnight trail, on the loving trail
Our old womans lonesome tonight.
Your French harp blows like a lone bawling calf.
Its a wonder the wind don't tear off your skin,
Get in there and blow out the light.
With your snake oil and herbs
and your liniment, too
You can do anything that a doctor can do.
Except find cure for your own god damned stew.
The cook fires out, and the
coffee's all gone,
The boys are up and we're raising the dawn.
You're still, sitting there all lost in a song.
I know someday that I' II be
just the same.
Wearing an apron, instead of a name.
But no one can change it and no ones to blame.
Cause the deserts a book wrote
in lizards and sage,
It's easy to look like an old torn out page,
All faded and cracked with the colors of age.