Arid Hobo Highway Blues
© Yes
Author: Carlo D'Anna
Arid Hobo Highway Blues



Old Man Joe lives under the bridge, Old Man Joe lives under the bridge,

he?s smokin? Datura cigs.

Old Man Joe lives under the bridge, Old Man Joe lives under the bridge

he?s smokin? Datura cigs.

Kickin? down the desert road, seeing all the bones of old, the people who lived.

Wasn?t always truck stops and gas, seedy joints I?ll have to pass

As I make my way south.

I see the eyes of the old man, the dry nights of an insect spotted prairie highway.

His shabby clothes reflect to his lonely tiresome travelling.

And it makes me feel he?s been some places, like a dingy bar in Needles, California.

Where the waitresses were exhausted, and the lights were peppered with dead, dry mosquitoes.

I see in the shine of his glasses, of slumbers in the old motels,

Where lumpy mattresses and cockroaches dance in molasses.

Dirty tee-shirts, and no smoking in the hallways.

Echoes play under Highway Bridge, where semi?s scream and bottles clink in coincidence.

Begging for that one last swig, that would send forgetfulness, like a cold empty kiss.

But Smoky Joe, his one time friend, pushed his beggar?s face away,

So the old man walked down the highway of Route 66.

Meanwhile the neon cowgirls kick their legs, over and over into the monsoon sky.