No regrets coyote
we just come from such different sets of circumstances.
I’m up all night in the studios and you’re up early on your ranch.
You’ll be brushing out a brood mare’s tail while the sun is ascending
and I’ll just be getting home with my reel to reel...
There’s no comprehending just how close
to the bone and the skin and the eyes
and the lips you can get
and still feel so alone
and still feel related
like stations in some relay.
You’re not a hit and run driver, no, no, racing away
you just picked up a hitcher,
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
We saw a farmhouse burning down in the middle of nowhere,
in the middle of the night and we rolled right past that tragedy
till we turned into some road house lights, where a local band was playing.
Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor and the next thing I know
That coyote’s at my door. He pins me in a corner and he won’t take no!
He drags me out on the dance floor and we’re dancing close and slow
Now he’s got a woman at home, he’s got another woman down the hall
he seems to want me anyway.
Why’d you have to get so drunk
and lead me on that way?
You just picked up a hitcher,
a prisoner of the white lines of the freeway
I looked a coyote right in the face on the road to baljennie
near my old home town. He went running thru the whisker wheat,
chasing some prize down. And a hawk was playing with him.
Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes
he had those same eyes - just like yours under your dark glasses,
privately probing the public rooms
and peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors
where the players lick their wounds
and take their temporary lovers
and their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play
No regrets, coyote
I just get off up aways.
You just picked up a hitcher,
a prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
Coyote’s in the coffee shop.
He’s staring a hole in his scrambled eggs.
He picks up my scent on his fingers.
while he’s watching the waitresses’ legs.
He’s too fat from the Bay of Fundy,
from Appaloosas and eagles and tides
and the air conditioned cubicles
and the carbon ribbon rides
are spelling it out so clear -
either he’s going to have to stand and fight
or take off out of here.
I tried to run away myself,
to run away and wrestle with my ego
and with this flame you put here in this eskimo -
in this hitcher,
in this prisoner,
of the fine white lines,
of the white lines on the free, free way
we just come from such different sets of circumstances.
I’m up all night in the studios and you’re up early on your ranch.
You’ll be brushing out a brood mare’s tail while the sun is ascending
and I’ll just be getting home with my reel to reel...
There’s no comprehending just how close
to the bone and the skin and the eyes
and the lips you can get
and still feel so alone
and still feel related
like stations in some relay.
You’re not a hit and run driver, no, no, racing away
you just picked up a hitcher,
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
We saw a farmhouse burning down in the middle of nowhere,
in the middle of the night and we rolled right past that tragedy
till we turned into some road house lights, where a local band was playing.
Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor and the next thing I know
That coyote’s at my door. He pins me in a corner and he won’t take no!
He drags me out on the dance floor and we’re dancing close and slow
Now he’s got a woman at home, he’s got another woman down the hall
he seems to want me anyway.
Why’d you have to get so drunk
and lead me on that way?
You just picked up a hitcher,
a prisoner of the white lines of the freeway
I looked a coyote right in the face on the road to baljennie
near my old home town. He went running thru the whisker wheat,
chasing some prize down. And a hawk was playing with him.
Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes
he had those same eyes - just like yours under your dark glasses,
privately probing the public rooms
and peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors
where the players lick their wounds
and take their temporary lovers
and their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play
No regrets, coyote
I just get off up aways.
You just picked up a hitcher,
a prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
Coyote’s in the coffee shop.
He’s staring a hole in his scrambled eggs.
He picks up my scent on his fingers.
while he’s watching the waitresses’ legs.
He’s too fat from the Bay of Fundy,
from Appaloosas and eagles and tides
and the air conditioned cubicles
and the carbon ribbon rides
are spelling it out so clear -
either he’s going to have to stand and fight
or take off out of here.
I tried to run away myself,
to run away and wrestle with my ego
and with this flame you put here in this eskimo -
in this hitcher,
in this prisoner,
of the fine white lines,
of the white lines on the free, free way
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