Where the Crows Go

A white knuckle night made up of skin and bone

Pale moonlight turns the blacktop gold

The only thing rich tonight is the second hand smoke

That lines my throat

Whoa on the dark side of the road

Living in this town sure takes it's toll

You get beat up bruised broken down and still you owe

With any luck you'll make it out but most grow old

Whoa on the dark side of the road

We live and die in four four time

A microphone's swinging from a telephone wire

Can you really blame the crows for crying out in the cold

Whoa on the dark side of the road

With every virtue there is a vice

There's no hymn you could sing that'll save your heart tonight

There's a halo hanging high above my ghost

Whoa on the dark side of the road

Let's go to the dark side of the road