Busted flat in battered shoes, waiting for my train. When I was feeling near as faded as my jeans.
Bobby thumed a diesel down and rode us all the way to New Orleans. Well I pulled my harpoon, out of my dirty red banda. I was playing songs while Bobby sang the blues yeah.
Windshield wipers slapping time, I was holding Bobby's hand in mine and we sang every song that driver knew. 
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