|
Hit the road and you ignite. |
|
Just add Pabst and eyes grow wild. |
|
I know this town has got you down |
|
and you can't take the pain she brings, |
|
so fuck old friends you've got four here, |
|
tight like strings. |
|
We may never make sense to them. |
|
Because of who we are, |
|
because of what we do. |
|
But what good are they anyway, |
|
when we can only cry on tour? |
|
Now you're fighting the need to be alone, |
|
because a hundred miles outside your calling zone, |
|
there's a bed, a dog, and a girl you once called Home. |
|
But like all good things, they must end, |
|
so just tough it out with your dirty friends. |
|
How good were "things" anyway? |
|
When the pretense won't wash away? |
|
And these cigarettes are smoking you. |
|
And the sex is doing nothing. |
|
And it seems there is no medicine, just that cliched Open Road. |
|
We've been sitting here too long. Lets go. |
|
I know this town has got you down, |
|
and you can't take the pain she brings. |
|
Fuck old friends, you've got four here, tight like strings. |
