Blown Away by Walkabouts
Out past the trees there is nothing to burn
Just an empty gas station, left to me in a will
Just a plate of bad habits and plenty of salt for the wounds
Just a plate of bone china and plenty of salt for the wounds
At night there are voices
By the old station house
They come from an angel with a kerosene tongue
She say's: "there is trouble, a trouble that no one can name"
She say's: "help is too late when the memory doesn't remain"
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