The Trip - Dave Rawlings Machine

Whistles blow and people get on trains without knowing where they're going

Someone's daughter someone's sister someone's teacher going down the road

Body and a handkerchief and a hatchet from an unspeakable crime

But there's no-one waiting for them there's no judgment down the line

Banjos ring and chickens squall and little babies crow

And the winter leaves and the spring unwinds and summer comes again you know

Pink is the color of my true love's

Dress and black is the color of her heart

But I can never leave old Virginny and so we'll never part

Ebony face ebony nails ebony coffin on the rails

Moving south C O D going home to mother

Some said for valor for glory for treasure for pride

Sometimes brother hates brother

So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam

It's much too hard to try to live a lie at home

My boots were cracked with road dirt and asphalt spit and broken dreams

Chewing gum and safety pins are what hold me in at the seams

My pegs are loose my screws too tightly wound to get into

But I still try sometimes on those golden summer afternoons

So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam

It's much to hard to try to live a lie at home

There's a picture of an old black man in a beaver hat

He wears a hidden smile and a pair of white spats

Don't pretend you didn't notice his stare

You're edgy and sweating and loaded for bare

The skeletons dance tonight bring your bottle and your boots

And your mandolin Bianca Alatorre tried to shoot

Ah but what's a bullethole or two between friends

And who can say when the well goes dry or where the story ends

So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam

It's much too hard to try to live a lie at home

Hotel lives and hotel wives that come and go with the sheets

Ah but what's a marriage if it can't be held up to kitchen heat

Once I knew each valley of that beautiful shore

But I don't go to the summer fair much anymore

So take a trip wherever your conscience says to roam

It's much too much to try and live a lie at home

Your harmonica is blown baby throw it away

Your denim shirt is ragged and your dirty collars frayed

I tried to play my horn for ya but

I couldn't seem to find the note

So I picked up pen and paper and this is what I wrote

Go take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam

It's much to hard to try to live a lie at home