As I trade the tin man ,for whisky and a light.
An Eastwood film , I ride through the night.
The men are dead here
Eyes have no form
I never belonged in such a place.
A canvas painted amongst such storms.
I wrote Broadway
Puppets on strings
I hate Pinocchio.
Tell me where to ride too
Where the land isn’t quite so cold
Tell me where to fly too
Where the truth is told.
As I search beyond this lantern
Filled with sand.
Falling through your mad hands.