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.