Wolves by the roadnand a bike wheel spinning on a pawn shop wallnShe’ll wring out her colored hairnlike a butterfly beaten in a summer rainfallnAnd then roll on the kitchen floornof some fucker with a pocketful of foreign changenThe song of the shepherd’s dog,na ditch in the dark in the ear of the lambnWho’s going to try to run awaynWhoever got that bravennWolves in the middle of townnand a chapel bell ringing through the wind-blown treesnShe’ll wave to the butcher’s boynwith the parking lot music everybody believesnAnd then dive like a dying birdnat any dude with a dollar at the penny arcadenThe song of the shepherd’s dog,nthe waiter and the check or the rooster on a rooftopnwaiting for daynAnd you know what he’s going to saynnWolves at the end of the bednand a postcard hidden in her winter clothesnShe’ll weep in the back of a trucknto the traitors only trying to find her bullet holenAnd then run down a canopy roadnto some mother and a baby with a cross to bearnThe song of the shepherd’s dog,na little brown flea in the bottle of oilnfor your wool, wild hairnYou'll never get him out of there