I can’t find a trace of my southnI’ve been driving around in circles for years nownThese little railroad towns are so strangely lit at sundownnnI’m the wind in the weedsnI’m a stir in the leavesn nI can’t find my way through this mazenOf the pace and the space and the grace in decaynI can’t bear to staynI can’t leave and I can’t look awaynnI’m the wind in the weedsnI’m a stir in the leavesnI’m the light through the hole in the hat in your handnI’m a wandering soulnI’m a vanishing mannA vanishing mannnI chain-smoke till dawnnBy the green glow of the dash and the cell phonenI let the seek keep cycling onnBursting preachers and Spanish and static and songsnAnd I don’t have a homenI still don’t have a homenJust when you think I’m in the palm of your handnYou’ll hear clattering bottles and rattling cansnI’m a ghost in the grandstandnA sackful of windnI’m a bat in the raftersnAnd a rat in the tinnIn the cool before dawnnI’m a creak and a groannI’m a breath on the back your neck and I’m gonenI’m so goddamn alonennI’m a pall of uneasenI’m the wind in the weedsnI’m the light through the hole in the hat in your handnI’m a wandering soulnI’m a vanishing mannA vanishing mannA magnificent mannSuch a frail little mannI’m a terrified mann