Where The Wind Sleeps
At the stroke of midnight I'm awake and writing like the breeze. The
balcony's a symphony of sound beneath the trees. Beer lights burn like
signal fires across a battlefield. The highway's distant, concrete call
phones home, but just gets me. Here along the rooftops you can plainly see
my friends are tomcats on the prowl, 'cause their story's familiar to me.
Way down here where the wind sleeps crosstown traffic meets side streets.
Way down here where the wind sleeps. Lifetimes of senseless victories and
glorious defeats fill these country hillside graves where town pretends to
be. Way up on the writer's porch the tapping of the keys to give them what
they dearly want but never what they need. Down there along the avenue
young toughs following me. Your step's unsteady, your heartbeat's ready to
split your chest in the street.