She lives off the land
Lives simply from her hand
Acres and acres from her window she can see
Forces a smile, but secretly she
Is saddened and forlorn. She sits and she stares
At the missing guitar, trombone, and drum snare
The dusty seats where she plays alone
Her empty band
This is her home
She lives through her days, filled with dust
Her old bicycle brittle, a frame of rust
Acres and acres from her window she can see
Miles and miles, but secretly she
Looks because she's searching. For someone there
To play the guitar, trombone, drum snare
Excite the dust particles from their ways
Play in her empty band
For days upon days