(Francis Bakin, 2009)
It’s a cold snapIn the shoulder season
A bitch slap of a wind is freezing
No tell motel hanging out by the door
I’d lie and say I ain’t been here before
Young men waiting on the blacktop
Old men coming for the whistlestop
Snow plow churning up the snapshots of the last seen
Why is the light so mean
Old man looking for another scheme
Young girl looking for another dream
Or maybe not dreaming maybe just hanging around
My mind is living on the darker edge of town
How can I worry bout lonesome
When my body is living in Babylon
And the knock on the door is an atom bomb
What drives men on
What drives men on
I’m empty again on the chopping block
The sun is shining it’s freaking me out
In the shoulder season it should burn out
Why won’t the light burn out
Why won’t the light burn out
This cold snap is wearing me out
How can I worry bout lonesome
When my body is living in Babylon
And the knock on the door is an atom bomb
What drives men on
What drives men on
My hope is hung on the handle of the door
No tell motel don’t disturb anymore
It’s the shoulder season I ain’t been here before