I was traveling with this girl one time
In another century
(It might even've been a Buick, I'm not sure)
We were suffering from the same disease
They call it "modern life"
So we headed for the hills to find a cure
Like maybe a Yaqui sorcerer or a mystid from Peru
Or a crystal ball from distant Mandalay
Now I can't recall her name, but I will not forget her eyes
They were lookin' at me from a million miles away

Cold is the road as autumn slips away
How many miles yet to go?
Yes 'n how many lives are buried in the clay
Down below?

She had come out of some mining town
In the hills of old Vermont
It's the kind of story that you sometimes hear
Her father died when she was nine and her mother took to drink
And descended into the hell of her own fear
So she ran away at 15, thumbed her way out west
In the company of salesmen, tramps, and thieves
She worked all the clubs in Omaha, and was known to be "the best"
If that's a concept in which you can still believe...

Cold is the road as autumn slips away
How many miles yet to go?
Yes 'n how many lives are buried in the clay
Down below?

[that's part of the story...]

- LH