Let your head hang low. If you've drawn yourself a breath, you know the wind can wrest the world out of your hold.
As it sank down low, dark before the whistle blows, too young to slumber, blood marauding as it flows.

And we're all downstream from somebody else's dream.
And we're all downwind when the ash picks up again.
And we all ought to go where the exiled people go, their bonfires burn your bones.

The rumble in your throat, how it burns so. Through your crooked lines. I know a mile is just a mile to a young soul, rolling over broken hearts, lives in tow.

Between us, would you say that to a child? Would you say that to a baby? In a small, small town, would you lay your troubles down? In a small, small town, would you lay your troubles down?

And we're all downstream from somebody else's dream.
And we're all downwind when the ash picks up again.
And we all ought to go where the exiled people go, their bonfires burn your bones.