Good Morning, America!

It was a long lonely night at the lumber mill

Just listening to a whippoorwill

In the dark beside a logging road.

I’ve got fifteen cars of timber on my load.

The yard stinks of bleeding sap and cut pine.

Roll on, roll on down the line.

I’ll be on my way before the dawn

Through the bottoms and the swamps.

Before first sun light on the timber lot,

Backwater sloughs and cypress knots.

On rusted rails I’ll be making time

When the horizon winks a thin gold line.

I’ll be rumbling down this long steel track,

Somewhere between porch light and pitch black

While coyotes call out for the night.

My engines will be roaring around the bend

As the night bird’s song comes to an end.

Roll on, morning train, roll on.

Then day break will lay on morning dew,

As the logging town fades out of view.

 I’ll give my whistle a blow, blow

To make the farmer’s rooster crow.

By the time the sun has warmed me,

Old men will be drinking their coffee

As I roll through the station.

I ask you leave an open car

For misty eyed hobos and runaways.

Let them know the clotheslines, highways,

And countless telephone poles.

Sunshine and shadows clicking time

Beside the graveyards, grain silos,

And other lonely places.

They’ll be greeted by multitudes of sparrows,

Smiling house wives in their bathrobes,

Unwashed cars and graffiti

Behind the back yards of society.

They’ll find comfort in the rhythm of the day

Beside the dusty dirt roads and alleyways.

Roll on, big freight train, roll on.