| Song | Source Decay |
| Artist | The Mountain Goats |
| Album | All Hail West Texas |
| 作词 : Darnielle | |
| Once a week I make the drive, two hours east | |
| To check the Austin post office box | |
| And I make the detour through our old neighborhood | |
| See all the Chevy Impalas in their front yards up on blocks | |
| And I park in an alley | |
| And I read through the postcards you continue to send | |
| Where as indirectly as you can, you ask what I remember | |
| I like these torture devices from my old best friend | |
| Well, I'll tell you what I know, like I swore I always would | |
| I don't think it's gonna do you any good | |
| I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok | |
| Down toward the water | |
| I always get a late start when the sun's going down | |
| And the traffic's thinning out and the glare is hard to take | |
| I wish the West Texas Highway was a mobius strip | |
| I could ride it out forever | |
| When I feel my heart break, I almost swear I hear it happen, in fact, clean and not hard | |
| I come in off the highway and I park in my front yard | |
| Fall out of the car like a hostage from a plane | |
| Think of you a while, start wishing it would rain | |
| And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok | |
| Down toward the water | |
| I come into the house, put on a pot of coffee | |
| Walk the floors a little while | |
| I set your postcard on the table with all the others like it | |
| I start sorting through the pile | |
| I check the pictures and the postmarks and the captions and the stamps | |
| For signs of any pattern at all | |
| When I come up empty-handed the feeling almost overwhelms me | |
| I let a few of my defenses fall | |
| And I smile a bitter smile | |
| It's not a pretty thing to see | |
| I think about a railroad platform | |
| Back in 1983 | |
| And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok | |
| Down, down toward the water |
| zuò cí : Darnielle | |
| Once a week I make the drive, two hours east | |
| To check the Austin post office box | |
| And I make the detour through our old neighborhood | |
| See all the Chevy Impalas in their front yards up on blocks | |
| And I park in an alley | |
| And I read through the postcards you continue to send | |
| Where as indirectly as you can, you ask what I remember | |
| I like these torture devices from my old best friend | |
| Well, I' ll tell you what I know, like I swore I always would | |
| I don' t think it' s gonna do you any good | |
| I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok | |
| Down toward the water | |
| I always get a late start when the sun' s going down | |
| And the traffic' s thinning out and the glare is hard to take | |
| I wish the West Texas Highway was a mobius strip | |
| I could ride it out forever | |
| When I feel my heart break, I almost swear I hear it happen, in fact, clean and not hard | |
| I come in off the highway and I park in my front yard | |
| Fall out of the car like a hostage from a plane | |
| Think of you a while, start wishing it would rain | |
| And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok | |
| Down toward the water | |
| I come into the house, put on a pot of coffee | |
| Walk the floors a little while | |
| I set your postcard on the table with all the others like it | |
| I start sorting through the pile | |
| I check the pictures and the postmarks and the captions and the stamps | |
| For signs of any pattern at all | |
| When I come up emptyhanded the feeling almost overwhelms me | |
| I let a few of my defenses fall | |
| And I smile a bitter smile | |
| It' s not a pretty thing to see | |
| I think about a railroad platform | |
| Back in 1983 | |
| And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok | |
| Down, down toward the water |