Knock-Kneed Ballerina

With an anonymously-wadded five-dollar tip We tossed a hundred down the tank and we let'r rip Down that interstate where our own Eisenhower Slung the chains around our brains with our own sweat I may not or I may hang my hat in a Section 8 Yeah but I'm at home within, without a dime or naked Ah, but there's some achin' in my veins that I just can't figure That kills and fills me like a slow black coffee-drip As we retrace the dream of a knock-kneed ballerina Stone-cold twistin' out our twilight patina In her pin-drop parlour down south of Nowhere Floatin' on the edge Well we played a little two-bit room last night outside of Atlanta Watched a cover band do one long line off of Mustang Sally Well it wasn't too debonair between there and Chattanooga But when I heard that night-train Screech man I was double-sure I was human He said: "All aboard! Ye with little holes in your jeans! Hop on the off-chance that your wife's a-gonna turn out mean!" Well if you don't pay me what I need to wear a shirt of chambray It'll suit me fine to take your taxes on that third-shift holiday Retracing the dream of a knock-kneed ballerina Stone-cold twistin' out a twilight patina In her pin-drop parlour down south of Nowhere floating on the edge