Miss Misfortune sails down the rails with her brow to the windowpane,
And all that scenery that she sees in her hear doesn’t match with the blur in her
brain,
I she her tracing all the tricks of the tracks, like the ribs of a rattlesnake,
And all those little pastel chalk-lines of fact are erased like a schoolgirl’s slate.
She is reading her own tattoos,
Her diary is the evening news,
She cannot give a damn on cue,
Freight train, freight train,
Freight train to nowhere.
If she were not scorching the rails with the haste of a bolting ghost, there would be no reason to fear the death-rattle in the engine’s throat,
Send in the clowns, mini-cams if you will, take up a gun, be politically correct,
That kind of justice – still preying on the ones with the stones hung around their neck.
Reading her own tattoos,
Her diary is the evening news,
She can’t give a damn on cue,
Freight train, freight train, freight train,
Freight train to nowhere, freight train to nowhere.
She’s heard it said by the drone in her head: “The wages of spend is debt,”
She figures that’s just better to show for the years of the tears and sweat,
Put out you hand on the brake of the land, find the treason in the diesel and smoke, smoke,
Now knock out the teeth of the dull and the meek, feed them the truth until they choke.
Sing a little low tattoo,
Diary is the evening news,
She can’t give a damn on cue,
Freight train, freight train, freight train, freight train,
Freight train to nowhere, freight train to nowhere,
Freight train to nowhere, nowhere, nowhere, no, no, no, no, nowhere.
