In the mountains of winter, hats hung to the west, on the North Star we've ridden into tomorrow instead. The natives can smell the fear that's starving your dog, that keeps the anger inside you bottled up in you alone.
And the acres subside, the girls lay in their shorts, but I hate disappointment. I hate being let down. I say you have the prettiest blue eyes that I've ever found.
In the valley, if they come, we'll read ourselves into history. Rocks for the eyes, and sticks for the knees. Against all that's wicked, inside something strong. We've all had our guts pulled out to a Keith Richards song. And the drums break, the strummer hums back, the words mix and there's a cacophony of wrong.
Even the hero will be our villain before we've come too far along.
