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on the hill where custer was, |
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making his last stand, |
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with the indians all around, |
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and his gun in his hand. |
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such a wind was blowing that day, |
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through the battleground, |
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i could feel it in my hair, |
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as i turned towards downtown. |
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weaving through the buildings, |
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cutting though the streets, |
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slicing through the culture, |
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piling on the weeks. |
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going home, i'm going home. |
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going home, i'm going home. |
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going home. |
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dropping in on you my friend, |
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is just like old times, |
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said the fool who signed the paper, |
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to assorted slimes. |
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it's hard to get blood from a stone |
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but for you i'll give it a try, |
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to provide your accomodations, |
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and leave you satisfied. |
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you'd think it was easy, |
|
to give your life away, |
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to not have to live up to, |
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the promises you made. |
|
going home, i'm going home. |
|
going home, i'm going home. |
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going home. |
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elusively she cut the phone, |
|
moved from cell to cell, |
|
really looking remarkable, |
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and obviously doing well. |
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she made a turn on a wooden bridge, |
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into the battleground, |
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with a thousand warriors on the ridge, |
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she tried to turn her radio down. |
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battle drums were pounding, |
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all around her car, |
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she saw her clothes were changing, |
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into sky and stars. |
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going home, i'm going home. |
|
going home, i'm going home. |
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going home, i'm going home. |
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going home, i'm going home. |
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going home... |
