Bruise black sky at night, stadium lights, the odd fight
Cars parked for a hundred miles on the grass, smoking grass
And I’m left to the dew under a jacket soaked right through
And I hope you never come home
‘Cause I know I won’t.
Four of us in a flatbed truck, making time to the next town
She looks like you so I’ll ask if she’s been on a greyhound bus
She’s the grammar queen. She’s got a Navajo blanket and nothing underneath.
Damn, these scrublands are cold, but there’s nothing to remind me of home.
Hey Paul won’t you drive me up along the coast in your flatbed truck.
Your mom will cook for us trailer food.
We’ll get drunk on the roof,
and I’ll say I never thought you’d stay
you just kept on not leaving me.
I’m going up to Rupert,
I know a guy – he grows barns of reefer
I have always been good with his dogs
And I hope you never come home.
Hall of Records 