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wherever we go they will follow with their money
they will hose us out with it and put up a giant handbag
and they'll know it's my vegetables cut up in the fridge
my comic books stuffed among the rocks on the ledge

all the music in the world fits in their deck of cards
and it keeps rolling the road flat and steamy
I don't hear their footsteps here in the desert
where the roads don't go but I know they're coming

because we've made it holy with our poverty and our pain
put up teddy bear shrines on driftwood and broken chairs
and danced after hours in our paint-covered boots
shouted at the chic chickens and misquoted our dreams