Nothing left,
Spilling over into the tank,
Running on fumes since Denver.
Man, I figure it's a trick,
Some play off the light,
Like sunrays blurring off an eyelash.
And I pass endless cornfields,
Lost in the Holy Bliss of isolation, Not even a woman
Can take that from you.

None taken,
I'll let you off by the Junction,
Down by the hallows
The poor region,
Where nothin good happens for lifetimes. Thinking of
Redemption and Original Sin,
The even draw that turns
Men Saint or Sinner
Since way back when.
While Sunday evening darkens quicker in late summer. Before the
North wind rustles the dry cornstalks.

Out here, it's only crickets
And a man's thoughts.
While I dream of warm woman, all leg and blue smoke,
And the cool wind carries
The harbinger of night.
A lone set of headlights
Sweep up the highway.
And the cornstalks whisper,
Calling out a dry fate
You'd rather not hear.