Creed Bratton strumming along,
Singing the oral history of his hometown,
The place from which he departed to embark on his great adventure.

I sit here in the dining room,
Looking contempitave at near empty pack,
A lone cigarette lays a little worn,
The last defender in it's paperboard Alamo,
I ponder at it for a moment before lighting up.

The guitar resembling the chugging of a train,
Rumbling down Californian rails.

Even the time changed resembles the screeching of brakes upon those rails,
Upon those iron horses,
Before chuggin' along once again,
Tempo and mood increasing once again,
Before passing by and roars to the horizon,
Chasing the setting sun,
It's sounds disappearing eventually into the passing wind.