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Everettsville: Music

"Backseat"

(Don Everett Pearce)
It’s 4am and I’m riding in the backseat
Up front the meter’s ticking off the rate
I’m looking out the window at the wet street
While twisting white ghosts rise up through the grates
The driver’s talking low into his cell phone
What language is he speaking? I can’t tell
To ask him is to start a conversation
So I guess I’ll never know
Oh well

Slippery yellow steeds compete for road space
In a brutish little ballet down the lanes
Was I a little brute to try and kiss her
Underneath the awning in the rain
When somebody’s in the bed she’s heading home to
And I know the guy, I had a drink with him one time
The driver slaps a tape into the dashboard
Now it’s slowly sinking in that she ain’t mine

How long must I wait
For love to come around?
I’ve been hanging on and staying out late
Now let this blind horse drive me down

Driving like a spike through the heart of darkness
Believe me, it’s so easy to lose sight
Graffiti-painted, corrugated roll-downs look like the Mona Lisa tonight
Why is it so hard to change directions
When down the road, all you see is red?
No answer from the drizzly streets of Chinatown
Just a dead man’s horn crying in my head