The great grey sky, flat and wide, shivers above the heat. And silver rain lays like razor blades into the wounded miles of wheat. And the road resists with the rubbery kiss of meat. A solitary tower, beaconed and boned, strobes red as the liquid wind blows, like blood in a river, and I turn to the driver, say, "This is a dead end road." And the driver nods he knows. But the muscle car never slows. Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe. Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the stultifying night. Think of anything that could disguise your life. But don't dream of the girl with the golden hair, cause that dream is old, and there's nothing there for you. A great black lie blacked the ride and the devil stole your seat. And all about outside were circumscribed signs of your imminent defeat. But the driver never speaks. Still you traverse that hide like a cursed pariah, but who's the one who uttered the oath? You got your diatribe and your a**orted messiahs, but what if you're deprived of both? And your homely little hoax. And your homely little hoax. Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe. Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the nullifying night. Think of anything that could negate your life.. But don't dream of the girl with the golden hair. 'Cause that dream is old, and there's nothing there for you. Something rises by the side of the road beneath the sky's judging sty where your view explodes to reveal the peeled head of a buzzard in your bed and it smiles at all your wiles with a lover's dread and it's preaching to you with its clacking maw that your provision of a service as a fodder for the fraud is like a tiny abyss, not what it appears, but all your artifice fits, so if you can hear, hear me, hear me: You are nothing, like you should be. Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe. Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the stultifying night. Think of anything that could disguise your life. Sit down and soak and p*** and moan. Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road. Take a drink, steal a light in the s*****ic night. Think of anything that could have saved your life. But don't dream of the girl with the golden hair, 'cause that dream was sold so long ago by you.