The great grey sky, flat and wide, shivers above the 
heat. And silver rain lays like razor blades into the 
wounded miles of wheat. And the road resists with the 
rubbery kiss of meat. A solitary tower, beaconed and 
boned, strobes red as the liquid wind blows, like blood 
in a river, and I turn to the driver, say, "This is a 
dead end road." And the driver nods he knows. But the 
muscle car never slows. Sit down and soak in the rain 
and the woe. Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead 
end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the 
stultifying night. Think of anything that could 
disguise your life. But don't dream of the girl with 
the golden hair, cause that dream is old, and there's 
nothing there for you. A great black lie blacked the 
ride and the devil stole your seat. And all about 
outside were circumscribed signs of your imminent 
defeat. But the driver never speaks. Still you traverse 
that hide like a cursed pariah, but who's the one who 
uttered the oath? You got your diatribe and your 
assorted messiahs, but what if you're deprived of both? 
And your homely little hoax. And your homely little 
hoax. Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe. Stoke 
drink, steal a light in the nullifying night. Think of 
anything that could negate your life.. But don't dream 
of the girl with the golden hair. 'Cause that dream is 
old, and there's nothing there for you. Something rises 
by the side of the road beneath the sky's judging sty 
where your view explodes to reveal the peeled head of a 
buzzard in your bed and it smiles at all your wiles 
with a lover's dread and it's preaching to you with its 
clacking maw that your provision of a service as a 
fodder for the fraud is like a tiny abyss, not what it 
appears, but all your artifice fits, so if you can 
hear, hear me, hear me: You are nothing, like you 
should be. Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe. 
Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road. Take 
a drink, steal a light in the stultifying night. Think 
of anything that could disguise your life. Sit down and 
soak and piss and moan. Stoke your fire in the mire of 
the dead end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the 
sadistic night. Think of anything that could have saved 
your life. But don't dream of the girl with the golden 
hair, 'cause that dream was sold so long ago by you.