i was thinking, baby, that before we go to sleep
i’ll tell you about my childhood and the roads that went deep,
deep in the ocean where my daddy parked his car
we’d be out ’til five in the morning but we never got far
’cause my mother would come running and she’d shout ”Johnny, please!”
dad would turn the car around ’cause we all had that disease
they call it love, or maybe hunger, and they let it loose in the night
it chews us whole and spits us out into yesterday’s light

and i was thinking, honey, that before you take your life
let me hear all about your children and your beautiful wife
that you left in oklahoma with that man and those dogs
with frothing jaws like scissors that glow in the dark
and if you find them at dusk when shadows are changing
you can see your maker’s eyes and it’s just the beginning
of things you’ll regret and things you’ll be missing
when you tie the rope tomorrow and the church bells are ringing
next week at the funeral they’ll be crying your name and i’ll
be standing in the back and i’ll be thinking of this day

and i’ll be thinking, darling, that the day you went to sleep
i wove you a wreath from the days that we spent deep,
deep in the valley where the roads were covered in dust
when we were young and tired and blinded by teen lust
that set fire to our houses and the sickness that was love
the mountain tops were swaying in the heat haze above
and i’ll miss them, maybe, or i’m glad we both got out
and that i’ll be the one meeting the magic dogs down south
this time, my dark-eyed maker will be waiting with a smile
i’ll tell your wife and children, and i’ll join you in a while.