At a bus stop in a border town
This lovelorn refugee
Slowly smokes a cigarette
And trembles, ill at ease
She should have been here hours ago
I watch the eastward road
But the sun tracks fast across the sky
And still nobody shows

And then I’m torn away at last
The doors slam hard and fast
Watch the empty houses
Press my nose against the glass

I guess I’ll go home then
It’s time to go home again
I’ll try to go home again

At a wooden house on Fleet Street
I took my final vows
Put a pen to paper then
Described what I had found
But words all lose their meaning when
You’re lost alone in love
And whatever mail I sent that day
Got lost and wasn’t enough

So I read a guide to San Francisco
In a boat out far from shore
Thought of all the love I’d make
If I ever got back to port

Now Coney Island’s emptied out
That cold November shore
Between the freak-show carousels
Dance the ballerina ghosts
I dance the ghost dance for my love
I paint my forehead blue
Raise my hands towards paradise
But my directions get confused

And I know I marked myself a man
With war paint on my cheeks
But there’s no strength left in my hands
Can hardly even speak