It was backstage in Moscow late one night
 We shared a cigarette, a kiss goodbye
 Her name was Cayenne, so young and soft
 Her hands trembled badly, her eyes trailed off
 To bottles and objects around the room
 My backup guitar, a tray of food
 
 We didn't have very much to say
 She said that she'd come from some other place
 A town called Troyskirt, maybe Troysworth
 I was pretty distracted packing my stuff
 But I did make a point to ask her to stay
 But she said she had friends that she had to go see
 
 Later that summer I picked up my mail
 She sent me a letter with a touching detail
 "I used up my minutes calling hotels
 To find you that night but to no avail"
 "I know it's pathetic," she continued to write,
 "But that was the greatest night of my life."