Trucks - Spacey Jane

Every morning, fighting through a coma

Each affliction carries its misnomer

Trucks roll loud into the port

They go where I could never know

My toes are freezing, cold cuts through the Persian

Rug I’ve stolen, Dad thinks that I’ve borrowed

He gives more than I can pay back

Twenty-two, I’ll never pay him back

Oh, ashtray sitting on the table filled with dead moths

Floating in the rainwater with pill bags

It’s winter, south of the river without a job

Oh, I don’t see it getting any better

Empty bottles, if not for the burnt butts

Falling over, wind in from the coast cuts

Hard and sharp, messes up my hair

Leaves fall, peppering the air

Oh, ashtray sitting on the table filled with dead moths

Floating in the rainwater with pill bags

It’s winter, south of the river without a job

Oh, I don’t see it getting any better

No, I don’t see it getting any better

Oh, ashtray sitting on the table filled with dead moths

Floating in the rainwater with pill bags

It’s winter, south of the river without a job

Oh, I don’t see it getting any better