3 A.M. I’m awakened by a sweet summer rain… distant howling of a passing southbound coal train. Was I dreaming or was there someone just lying here beside me in this bed? Am I hearing things? Or in the next room, did a long forgotten music box just start playing? And I know ¾ it’s a sin putting words in the mouths of the dead. And I know ¾ it’s a crime to weave your wishes into what they said. And I know — only fools venture where them spirits tread. ‘Cause I know ¾ every word, every sound bouncing ‘round my head. Is just static on the radio. Everything I think I know is just static on the radio. Midnight rendezvous with a pretty girl, wearing a torn and tear-stained gown. Like a ghost ship she appeared from nowhere on a lonely highway and flagged me down. I gave her a lift downtown to the Greyhound station and in the flicker of the neon lights, she kissed me goodbye, and in the mirror of her eyes I saw my own reflection. And I know ¾ the blind will sometimes lead the blind. And I know ¾ through shadow lands and troubled times. And I know ¾ forsaking love, we seek the signs. And I know ¾ of truths forever hid behind. The static on the radio. Everything I think I know is just static on the radio. Now there’s a church house about a stone’s throw down from this place where I been staying. It’s Sunday morning, and I’m sittin’ in my truck listening to my neighbor sing. Ten years ago I might have joined in, but don’t time change those inclined to think less of what is written than what’s wrote between the lines? ‘Cause I know ¾ dreams are for those who are asleep in bed. And I know ¾ it’s a sin putting words in the mouths of the dead. ‘Cause I know ¾ for all my ruminations I can’t change a thing. Still I hope ¾ there’s others out there who are listening. To the static on the radio. Everything I think I know is just static on the radio. Ain’t praying for miracles, I’m just down on my knees. Listening for the song behind everything I think I know. Everything I think I know is just static on the radio. Everything I think I know is just static on the radio.

2. BLUEBIRD

Bluebird on a telephone line. How are you? I’m feeling fine. Sweetly do I whisper your name. Lonely solo taxi ride to a cheap motel on the wrong side of the tracks. The facts are tricky to explain. Cold front bearing down, blowing in from Birmingham. By dawn the window’s wet with icy rain. Behind fourteen doors, a sad parade of paramours are throwing little white rocks at sorrow’s window pane. Me, I’ve found someone to love more than the rain. Salvation Army ringing bell, kingdom come and wishing wells. Hey Santa Claus I see your junkie eyes. It’s the devil and the deep blue sea, with old friends I hope I never see again all tangled up with misery and lies. The lonely hiss of passing cars feeds the ache of ancient scars, like ghosts beneath my bed rattling chains. No good luck charm or remedy ever proved to soothe my sanity nor bad medicine served to ease my pain. Had to find someone to love more than the rain. Now, old habits will die hard. This pile of junk setting in my yard… souvenirs from the wrecking ball of dreams. You spend a lifetime tearing temples down, it gets to feel like hallowed ground is a shallow grave where ne’er the bluebird sings. Last time home when I played this song, you said “Dad, it’s sad, and way too long.” And I pulled you close and held you in my arms. Yes, salvation wears a thin disguise ‘cause I can see the heaven in your eyes. And I thank God them years I searched were not in vain… finally found someone to love more than the rain. Bluebird I love you more than the rain.

3. COMBING MY HAIR IN A BRAND NEW STYLE

I found a blue hair comb with a busted tooth gonna comb out my hair in this telephone booth gonna comb out love, gonna comb out hate gonna get me a new look and I can’t wait. I took a lethal dosage of dope in my youth, bit the hook of Jesus — Oh! The terrible truth. I swallowed it hard for a damn good while,
but now I’m combing my hair in a brand new style. Combing my hair yeah. Combing my hair yeah. Combing my hair yeah. Combing my hair in a brand new style. I take a midnight stroll in a Love’s supermarket. I like passing the rows of candy for sale. See the pale pretty girls in the magazines? Smiling at me like they know what I mean. You take your candy dandy, your cheap girls — ruthless! Soul suckers all gonna end up toothless! Gumming the truth of life’s discount aisle. Me I’m combing my hair in a brand new style. CHORUS He used a blue hair comb with a busted tooth to comb out the tangles of his messed up youth. Returning in glory to the scene of his trial, he was combing his hair in a brand new style. Yeah the sorry story of his assorted crimes — his tribulations, his suffering mind all wiped clean and left miles behind. See him prowling the street? He got the mojo smile. He’s combing his hair in a brand new style. CHORUS I don’t want no hoodoos, no voodoo gurus, no spooked out priesty-beasty, no strippers with pasties, self-professed saviors of my soul, no low-down top-secret CIA moles, no crackpot psychopathic behavior specialists, no shriners, no shiners, no decisive moment existentialists, that’s right, no vegetable, no mineral, no institution gonna disrupt the constitution of my ingenious hairdo solution — see I got my sly pomade, my jelly in a jar! Now don’t you mistake me for no movie star, ‘cause I’m just a humble jumble of God’s crooked smile. Did you check out my hair in the brand new style? CHORUS

4. THAT GIRL FROM BROWNSVILLE TEXAS

I say “God, if you ain’t smiling on me, then you ain’t no friend of mine.” It’s late at night and this motel room’s drunk, I been listening to the lonesome wind crying. My best friend once said, “Jim, what you cling to, that’s the thing that you had best forget. For ain’t no rose bed ever gonna bloom in an untended field of regrets.” Guess I been busy killing time counting bullet holes in state line signs. I led a life of lonely drifting trying to rise above the buzzards in my mind. You get dizzy chasing ‘round the tail of what you need to leave behind. Oh sweet Jesus, won’t you help me? ‘Cause all I’m trying to do is plant them seeds of love with that girl from Brownsville, Texas. Midnight radio, a crackly white gospel station kicking out the sounds of some half-assed revival. Me, I never much cared for the feelings you get quoting scriptures from out of the Bible. For as the crow flies I know only one cure for a permanent tear in your eye. You gotta crank like hell that rope on old sorrow’s well ‘til the day that the bucket comes up dry. CHORUS Now dreams are just prayers without the put on airs… and though my history of dreams is a scandal of back-assward schemes and romantic disasters where Lord, you dealt me more cards than I could handle. Still from the lips of this half-hearted sinner comes the pledge of a half-baked saint. ‘Cause Lord I might finally be willing to become the religious fool you always wanted me to be… if in return we could just tell that girl I’m the man you and me both know that I ain’t. CHORUS

5. BORROWED WINGS

That night we drank wine from the crazy well. Shot a shotgun out the window of our automobile. We was young, we was wild and we sure had our fun. Until the sheriff caught up with us and we tried to run. Now we return to Earth on borrowed wings lifted from the shoulders of sweet dreaming angels. Now the world beyond the world we never will reach, ‘cause you can’t get to heaven on no… borrowed wings. Now Lucinda here she once ran a fine beauty parlor, ‘til her boyfriend got twenty years for robbing them liquor stores. She took some pills in a motel room a mile from his prison cell. Then she sank like a stone to the blue bottom of the swimming pool. Now she returns to Earth on borrowed wings lifted from the shoulders of sweet dreaming angels. Now the world beyond the world she never will reach, ‘cause you can’t get to heaven on no… borrowed wings. Between a rock called heaven and a hard place called home, we wander the shadows so restless and lonesome. For in the fallow field where what’s reaped is what’s sewn there lies a road to ruin and it’s paved with our tombstones. So if you catch my reflection in a sheet of summer rain, pray tell do remain silent for fear you’ll awaken them beautiful owners of the wings that we bear for fear they’ll reclaim them and send us back there. For we return to Earth on borrowed wings lifted from the shoulders of sweet dreaming angels. Now the world beyond the world we never will reach, ’cause you can’t get to heaven on no… no borrowed wings.

6. IF JESUS DROVE A MOTOR HOME

If Jesus drove a motor home, I wonder would he drive pedal to the metal, or real slow? Checking out the stereo. Cassette playing Bob Dylan, motivation tapes. Tricked up Winnebago, with the tie-dye drapes. If Jesus drove a motor home… If Jesus drove a motor home, and he come to your town, would you try to talk to him? Would you follow him around? Honking horns at the drive thru. Double-parking at the mall. Midnight at the Waffle House — Jesus eating eggs with ya’ll. If Jesus drove a motor home… Buddha on a motorcycle, Mohammed in a train. Here come Jesus in the passing lane… but everybody smile, ‘cause everybody’s grooving. Ain’t nothing like the feeling of moving with a bona fide motorized savior. Now if we all drove motor homes, well maybe in the end, with no country to die for, we could just be friends. One world as our highway. Ain’t no yours or my way. We’d be cool wherever we roam — if Jesus drove a motor home.

7. OBJECTS IN MOTION

Objects in motion tend to stay that way. You can’t waste the whole damn day loving what you need to cast away. Case in point, just yesterday I found a suitcase full of love letters floating down a cool brown river. Unsigned and undelivered, they set my mind to wandering as to the history of the unknown writer. Did she marry, did she run, was she old, was she young? Was her heart undone by the cruel business of loving? These objects in motion. These objects in motion. Objects in motion tend to stay that way… or so I learned on the riverbank just yesterday. For shortly thereafter I beheld as if in a dream the body of a young girl adrift beneath the surface of the cool brown water. My friends so unnerved was I by this cruel apparition that I let loose of that suitcase and it tumbled right back in the river. Then spellbound I watched as a halo of love letters formed a circle on the surface of the water right over her body and drifted away. These objects in motion. These objects in motion. Objects in motion tend to stay that way. You can’t waste the whole damn day loving what you need to cast away. For from the flame of love comes the cinder of regret. Sometimes the thing you cling to most is the thing you’d best forget. These objects in motion. These objects in motion.

8. BUZZARDS OF LOVE

Wonder if you know, what you see ain’t what you get. Wonder have you learned a dirty word — did you forget? ‘Cause there’s talk on the street… say sugar taste sweet… but it’ll tear you apart… when what’s easy on the eyes… is hard on the heart… when you’re loving …loving on them buzzards. See the shiny-winged angel things catch your eye in the big parade. You think you got it made. It’s all monkey see, monkey do, but in the end the joke’s on you. It ain’t nothing but a big charade. Watch the money talk… see the suckers walk… feel the lonely ache… take its toll, soul-sucking pain, yeah. Everybody knows… that’s just how it goes… when you’re loving, loving on them buzzards. Funny how you feel, like a thing is real, just ‘cause it feels good — You know what I’m saying? Yeah yeah. Funny how you run straight for the gun when you know when the fun is done ain’t nothing but hell to pay. See the face in the mirror, it looks alone and afraid. Well, if you think you a player, most times it’s you that’s getting played by them buzzards buzzards buzzards buzzards, them buzzards of love.

9. ALABAMA CHROME

Sunday I am young and wild, Monday I go lame. Tuesday I start twitching, Wednesday I’m insane. Thursday I lay dying, Friday I’m quite dead. Saturday I get carried away by things better left unsaid. But heaven ain’t no place, brother, and love ain’t no word sister. And prison ain’t no building made of iron bars and stone. You can seek the rhyme and reason, but in the realm of the unknown you won’t catch no true reflections in that “Alabama Chrome.” For there’s mountains you will scale with ease, yet molehills where you stumble. Sins you so regret and yet other sins that you enjoy. Harps can beg forgiveness, and the guitars can scream pain, but the contradictions are larger than any language can explain. For in the secret territory where the preachers come to steal the jewel of your heart, for they have no treasure of their own, there lies a sacred window, in your hand the perfect stone. You’d throw it, but you arms are bound ‘round with that “Alabama Chrome.” The heat it is withering, humidity smothering. Strip of silver tape, a sly lie covering dent in the side of the redneck ride. Going deep for the Crimson Tide. Yeah! Gonna bump to the thump of the Selma slammer. Wanna jump up and down like a wack jackhammer. Sing a little ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ — Jimmy gimme wink like a big flimflammer. Bone tired and so weary of treating truth as a lie, I been hunkered down in the bunker of some fools alibi. Squint harder you will see the slim tether of the saints. It’s whipping wild in the hurricane of all that is and all that ain’t. ‘Cause there’s angels in the shed mother and spiders in the bed brother and ghosts inside my head father, no I am not alone. My mind is teeth without a mouth, my thoughts are marrow without bone. My eyes are blinded by a thousand layers of that god damn “Alabama Chrome.”

10. PHONE BOOTH IN HEAVEN

Oh where are we going? Oh where have we been? Our hush-a-bye angel, she’s safe and tucked in. I drive around town, while you sit and watch the rain. There’s what you think with your heart and what I feel with my brain. For those who plant nothing but the seeds of the falling there is a phone booth in heaven that no one is calling. It sits on a highway that leads nowhere. I’ll drop you a line next time I find myself there. Remembering them days, how we wore our weakness well. There’s some say that heaven can’t exist without hell, well if the proof’s in the pudding, and that axiom’s true, somehow the heart of the matter escaped me and you. For those who plant nothing but the seeds of the falling there is a phone booth in heaven that no one is calling. Though the ghosts of redemption might whisper odd promises, I for one don’t put much faith in them specters. Now the blueprint for sorrow is just to put off the hurt ‘til the price of tomorrow becomes more than love’s worth. ‘Til what’s begged and what’s stole is just the hollow remains of some beautiful failure that we cling to in vain. For those who plant nothing but the seeds of the falling there is a phone booth in heaven that no one is calling. The truest word heard there is the word that’s unspoken ‘cause you can’t mend what the Good Lord designed to be broken. Oh where are we going? My darling oh where? Our sweetheart’s in dreamland, please let her stay there. We are two separate people, with two separate ways. Until we come to our senses, it’s our sweetheart that pays.

(11.) LAND CALLED HOME

Though the world is sleeping, my eyes are open. Yet it’s me that’s dreaming that I’m flying over mountaintops. I am crossing an ocean where at the end I see, I see a beautiful far away land called home. And them stars they sure are pretty, and while I do admire the distance their light, it travels, to shine down on me… still I would go further than the furthest star shine… just to find myself walking in a beautiful faraway land called home. Wanna find myself walking in a beautiful faraway land called home. And you can take all the money in all of the banks. You can take all the fame in Hollywood. You can take all the pretty girls in Paris, France. You can take my own name if you think it’ll do you some good. You can take all them things that perish, and you can throw them all right in the sea. ‘Cause ain’t but only one thing that matters. Ain’t but only one jewel in this world. Ain’t but only one feeling of all of life’s feeling that I wanna feel. That is the feeling of a beautiful far away land called home.