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