my friends please dodge the vcr tracking cliffs npraying through a telephone nmouths drying up into salt water lips and the waters running low nthis fire i'm feeding's a drunken hope and you know that we sold your soul to the west coastnkept the search plane overhead to gauge your scoreboard stridenbut teh search plane has no megaphonenand all the blue screens cripple your eyesnyou know it's not now when the searchlights capture the mountains and i follow the mountaintopsnkill the vcr tracking ruts nthe frost melts all the tumbleweeds to the citynvirginia don't drownna dry spell is coming