my friends please dodge the vcr tracking cliffs
praying through a telephone
mouths drying up into salt water lips and the waters running low
this fire i'm feeding's a drunken hope and you know that we sold your soul to the west coast
kept the search plane overhead to gauge your scoreboard stride
but teh search plane has no megaphone
and all the blue screens cripple your eyes
you know it's not now when the searchlights capture the mountains and i follow the mountaintops
kill the vcr tracking ruts
the frost melts all the tumbleweeds to the city
virginia don't drown
a dry spell is coming