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Through the week he sits looking out across the field |
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With a headaches' grip that won't let up |
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Brought on by the clutter of trivial things |
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Still it makes him feel better when Son House sings |
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The view's clear to the horizon clear and wide |
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Except for the power poles off to one side |
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He lights up a smoke as the next song begins |
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To slip away from the age we're in |
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The needle slowly rises from the groove |
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The record's slid back in it's sleeve |
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And carefully placed back on the shelf |
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He grabs the case sitting by the door |
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And heads on out past the truck stop signs |
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Last light drops on the thin white lines |
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Saturday night when the act begins |
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Slip away from the age we're in |
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Saturday night when the act begins |
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Slip away from the age we're in |
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Under the lights he stomps and he sighs |
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Throws his head back way off mic |
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Brass tube on steel it slips and it whines |
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Back to '25 in his mind |
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All that makes his body so tense |
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Is all the more for him to rail against |
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Saturday night when the act begins |
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Slip away from the age we're in |
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The days of wages and pages of sin |
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Can't escape from the age we're in |
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The days of wages and pages of sin |
