This is what we call a ghost town
Where the saloon door sets the metronome

With weather worn boots striking
On the down beat

Loud enough for the whole town to hear
So the bartender asks for a smile not a story

And gets nothing but questions
About how long he’s been here

Since it started raining, he says
And there’s been no drought in memory

But there’s still hope for sun
To paint the beds by morning

Where your lover’s skin is a symbol
Of the night before

And looks like a train track
But ain’t no train run here for a long time honey

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.