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 waterTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
