Photographs of the best time you had,
|
windows smugded by the speed.
|
Leaving home with our bags from Iron Street,
|
as morning turned into California,
|
And smoke trailed from the butt of my cigarette.
|
Our glass house it threw rocks at all those it past.
|
|
Waking up to the sound of 5 A.M. to take my turn at the wheel.
|
Climbed up Shasta, oh how the engine ached
|
as the sun tortured California,
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and old alleys turned deep at the heart of me.
|
Murals of heros defacing the blank concrete.
|
|
Vision tunneled, Mission Street, hunger beat
|
lodged out as the engine wheezed.
|
Still moving regardless of stable ground
|
and this stable ground.
|
|
Photographs of the best time you had,
|
windows smugded by the speed.
|
Leaving home with our bags from Iron street
|
as morning turned into California.
|
|
-----------------
|
Song For Kelly Huckaby
|
| Death Cab For Cutie |
