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A couple of young girls went |
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Sailing down A1A |
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Into the arms of Florida |
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Sailing down the highway |
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Singing their heads off |
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Protected by the holy ghosts |
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Flying in the ocean |
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Driving with their eyes closed |
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The night wants to kiss you deep |
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And be on his way |
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Pretend he don't know you |
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The very next day |
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Isn't it hard sometimes |
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Isn't it lonely |
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How I still hang around here |
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And there's nothing to hold me |
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You slide down into the seat |
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From twelve hours on your feet |
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And get the tide to wash you away |
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For thousands and thousands of days |
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And someone you never meet |
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Signs a check you get every week |
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You try and still can't forget |
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All the strangers that you have met |
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The night never owed you |
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Nothing anyway |
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Makes promises that he never intends |
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To keep everyday |
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Isn't it hard sometimes |
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Isn't it lonely |
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How I still hang around here |
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And there's nothing to hold me |
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Everytime, every year |
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The travelers come and go |
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You see them landing with their pale wings |
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And flying back to the snow |
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And the summer comes marching in |
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With his heavy boots on |
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Kicking along the backtop |
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Sidewalks of A1A |
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The young girls in their bare feet |
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Cigarette smoking |
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Looking every which way |
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Wishing and hoping |
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And you want the night just to let you sleep |
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And be on his way |
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Wrap you up in some cool sheets |
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And have nothing to say |
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Isn't it hard sometimes |
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Isn't it lonely |
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How I still hang around here |
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And there's nothing to hold me |
