You were hiding in the backseat of my Lincoln
Underneath a blanket with your head against the door
And I was already halfway through Ohio
When I heard your soft voice singing to a song on the radio
Past our sleeping father a cold cigar lying at his feet
He was surrounded by his books down in the parlor
Filled with all the word
S that he had wanted us to read and know
But this is not an old American story
About the rugged men who came out from the east
And I am not some outlaw from the Badlands
Or a gambler running tables in New Orleans
So I put you on a bus back to Boston
With some money in your shoe for a meal
And I turn my car in the other direction
Just hoping that I hear a note from the backseat