I packed up and went to Montana --
a place that I'd seen once before.
Then to New Orleans, Louisiana,
by way of 90 South and skipping tolls.

I lost my logic in their lingos --
from Back-country boys to French Creole.
This gypsy man, he needs no intro --
he arrives, and then, in time, he goes.

Drunk and ******, but still standing,
like Van Damme on death row.
This silence is a grave reminder,
that death will meet me down this road.

In time, I'll find I've made my sorrow,
but I still hear you crying close behind.
Since you're the reason for my roaming,
maybe you're what it is I need to find.