A man walking along the railroad track. Gone someplace. There’s no going back. How we patrol choppers coming up over the ridge, hot soup on a campfire under the bridge shelter line stretching round the corner. Welcome to the New World Order. Family sleeping in their cars in the southwest, no home, no job, no peace, no rest. Well, the highways alive tonight. Nobody’s kidding nobody about where it comes.
Oh, I’m sitting down here in the campfire light searching for the ghost of Tom Joe. He pulls a prayer book out of his sleeping bag. Breach your, lights up a button, takes a drink, waiting for the last shall be first and the first shall be last in a cardboard box. Me, the underpass. I got a one way ticket to the Promised Land.
Sleeping on a pillow, a solid rock. I’m bathing in the city. I could just when a highway is alive at night. But wait, it’s headed. Everybody knows. I’m sitting down here in the campfire light waiting on the ghost of Tom Chu.
And now Tom said, mom, wherever there’s a cat, being a guy, whatever, a hungry Newborn baby cry, where’s a fight against the blood and hatred in the air? Look for me, mom. I’ll be there wherever somebody is fighting. A place to stand. Oh, decent job or a helping hand, whatever. Somebody is struggling to be free, we’re looking their eyes, mine, and you’ll see me in the highways alive tonight. I put waste headed. Everybody knows I’m sitting down here in a campfire light with a ghost of Old Tom George. The other highways alive other night, but nobody’s kidding nobody about where it goes. SKUs, I’m sitting down here in a campfire line. With the ghost of all time. True.