The Trip

Whistles blow and people get on trains without knowing where they're going
Someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's teacher going down the road
With a body and a handkerchief and a hatchet from an unspeakable crime
But there's no-one waiting for them, there's no judgment down the line

Banjos ring and chickens squall and little babies crow
And the winter leaves and the spring unwinds and summer comes again, you know
Pink is the color of my true love's dress and black is the color of her heart
But I can never leave Old Virginny and so we'll never part

Ebony face, ebony nails, ebony coffin on the rails
Moving south C.O.D., going home to mother
Some said for valor, for glory, for treasure, for pride
Sometimes brother hates brother

So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It's much too hard to try to live a lie at home

My boots were cracked with road dirt and asphalt, spit and broken dreams
Chewing gum and safety pins are what hold me in at the seams
My pegs are loose, my screws too tightly wound to get into
But I still try sometimes on those golden summer afternoons

So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It's much to hard to try to live a lie at home

There's a picture of an old black man in a beaver hat
He wears a hidden smile and a pair of white spats
Don't pretend you didn't notice his stare
You're edgy and sweating and loaded for bear

The skeletons dance tonight, bring your bottle and your boots
And your mandolin Bianca Alatorre tried to shoot
Ah but what's a bullethole or two between friends
And who can say when the well goes dry or where the story ends

So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It's much too hard to try to live a lie at home

Hotel lives and hotel wives that come and go with the sheets
Ah but what's a marriage if it can't be held up to kitchen heat?
Once I knew each valley of that beautiful shore
But I don't go to the summer fair much anymore

So take a trip wherever your conscience says to roam
It's much too much to try and live a lie at home

Your harmonica is blown, baby, throw it away
Your denim shirt is ragged and your dirty collars frayed
I tried to play my horn for ya, but I couldn't seem to find the note
So I picked up pen and paper and this is what I wrote

Go take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It's much to hard to try to live a lie at home