Well you hate those diesels rollin'
|
And those Friday nights out bowlin'
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When he's off for a twelve hour lay over night
|
|
You wish you had a dollar
|
For every time he hollered
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That he's leavin'
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And he's never comin' back
|
|
But the curtain-laced billow
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And his hands on your pillow
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And his trousers are hangin' on the chair
|
|
You're lyin' through your pain, babe
|
But you're gonna tell him he's your man
|
And you ain't got the courage to leave
|
|
He tells you that you're on his mind
|
You're the only one he's ever gonna find
|
It's kind-a special, understands his complicated soul...
|
|
But the only place a man can breathe
|
And collect his thoughts is
|
Midnight and flyin' away on the road.
|
|
But you've packed and unpacked
|
So many times you've lost track
|
And the steam heat is drippin' off the walls
|
|
But when you hear his engines
|
You're lookin' through the window in the kitchen and you know
|
You're always gonna be there when he calls
|
|
'Cause he's a truck drivin' man
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Stoppin' when he can
|
He's a truck drivin' man
|
Stoppin' when he can
|
|
-----------------
|
Semi Suite
|
| Tom Waits |
