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No regrets coyote |
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We just come from such different sets of circumstance |
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I'm up all night in the studios |
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And you're up early on your ranch |
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You'll be brushing out a brood mare's tail |
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While the sun is ascending |
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And I'll just be getting home with my reel to reel |
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There's no comprehending |
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Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes |
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And the lips you can get |
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And still feel so alone |
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And still feel related |
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Like stations in some relay |
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You're not a hit and run driver no, no |
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Racing away |
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You just picked up a hitcher |
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A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway |
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We saw a farmhouse burning down |
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In the middle of nowhere |
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In the middle of the night |
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And we rolled right past that tragedy |
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Till we turned into some road house lights |
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Where a local band was playing |
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Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor |
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And the next thing I know |
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That coyote's at my door |
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He pins me in a corner and he won't take no |
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He drags me out on the dance floor |
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And we're dancing close and slow |
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Now he's got a woman at home |
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He's got another woman down the hall |
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He seems to want me anyway |
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Why'd you have to get so drunk |
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And lead me on that way |
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You just picked up a hitcher |
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A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway |
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I looked a coyote right in the face |
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On the road to Baljennie near my old home town |
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He went running through the whisker wheat |
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Chasing some prize down |
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And a hawk was playing with him |
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Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes |
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He had those same eyes just like yours |
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Under your dark glasses |
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Privately probing the public rooms |
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And peeking through keyholes in numbered doors |
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Where the players lick their wounds |
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And take their temporary lovers |
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And their pills and powders to get them through this passion play |
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No regrets coyote |
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I just get off up aways |
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You just picked up a hitcher |
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A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway |
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Coyote's in the coffee shop |
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He's staring a hole in his scrambled eggs |
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He picks up my scent on his fingers |
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While he's watching the waitresses' legs |
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He's too far from the Bay of Fundy |
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From appaloosas and eagles and tides |
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And the air conditioned cubicles |
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And the carbon ribbon rides |
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Are spelling it out so clear |
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Either he's going to have to stand and fight |
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Or take off out of here |
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I tried to run away myself |
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To run away and wrestle with my ego |
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And with this flame |
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You put here in this eskimo |
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In this hitcher |
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In this prisoner |
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Of the fine white lines |
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Of the white lines on the free, free way |
