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On the hill where Custer was, |
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Making his last stand, |
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With the Indians all around, |
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And his gun in his hand. |
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Such a wind was blowing that day, |
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Through the battleground, |
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I could feel it in my hair, |
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As I turned towards downtown. |
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Weaving through the buildings, |
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Cutting though the streets, |
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Slicing through the culture, |
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Piling on the weeks. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home. |
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Dropping in on you my friend, |
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Is just like old times, |
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Said the fool who signed the paper, |
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To assorted slimes. |
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It's hard to get blood from a stone |
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But for you I'll give it a try, |
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To provide your accomodations, |
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And leave you satisfied. |
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You'd think it was easy, |
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To give your life away, |
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To not have to live up to, |
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The promises you made. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home. |
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Elusively she cut the phone, |
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Moved from cell to cell, |
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Really looking remarkable, |
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And obviously doing well. |
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She made a turn on a wooden bridge, |
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Into the battleground, |
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With a thousand warriors on the ridge, |
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She tried to turn her radio down. |
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Battle drums were pounding, |
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All around her car, |
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She saw her clothes were changing, |
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Into sky and stars. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home, I'm going home. |
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Going home... |
