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May 2018
I'll ride the old phantom route 45
that runs right by this broken house
Her ghost roams still, and I get no sleep at night
So I'll pack my bag and grab the howling dog
and hit the old phantom 45

She plays the old 45s, on a record player with no platter
Oh phantom 45, she speaks to me at night
Stains remain on the bathroom floor
and so too, they exist on my heart

So to hit the old phantom 45, they call the 70 now
I'll hit 70 doing 70 and never look back
to the old phantom 45

The road sign still stands on the softly swollen ground
Outside the home we once shared
Now her restless spirit wanes in dusky drizzle
Since I hit the old phantom 45
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