Still brown-eyed, still handsome
Still mean as a cottonmouth
Bitter, wary, watchful
Of the new north and the old south
Suitcase packed, guitar, a car
A clean shirt, cash, a gun
Things you can put your faith in
When you can't trust anyone
No woman, no disciple, fan
Friendship is only words
Just pick-up bands, a half-hour set
And Johnnie Johnson's chords
Like Johnnie, never too bad
Never good, you were the best
Motorvating over that hill
Leaving behind the rest
Gone now; vicious, suspicious
Owed by a million bands
Poor boy forever on the line
Exiled from the Promised land
No comments:
Post a Comment