She comes on like a beautiful lie. Is it a star or a satellite. Is she real or just in my mind. I can't take it. Oh I head her voice. I'm seeing things.
Barbwire fence carving out a hillside, cutting holes in the midday sun, like a postcard framed in a windshield covered in dust.. I love the rythmn of an old gray black top, 33's just whistling bye, steer the wheel one handed on a two lane hugging that line..