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Junkyard America, nothing seems to last,
not even love or the 20th century.
Love limps like a wounded soldier,
waving to the crowd, to proud to stop, but too hard to go on.
To go on...
Graveyards behind me, I've ridden your buses
I've seen horizons, like diamonds waiting to frown.
We'll go together, I'll carry your camera,
We'll see the people, the people looking around
Looking around...
Can't seem to hear you, you're talking through a mist,
How can you tell me, that loving will ceased to exist.
Whats left will lie there, like pieces thrown around
from somebodies chess board, broken, will fall to the ground
To go on...