Now coming down
Out of this swan dive,
To your arms.
I make no sounds
When I move through your reservoir.
But I wake up quick.
And I wake up sick.
As you...
Abandon me
Into these fields
Of rank and file.
Through this crowd I hear you breathing.
Through these bars I watch them bring more in.
Now I send back letters,
From the wasteland home.
Where I slow dance to this romance on my own.
It may be two to tango,
But boy,
It's one to let go.
Well, it's just one to let go.
Now boy keep still.
Now don't spread yourself around.
Get back in line,
Eat your bread and just work the plow.
'Cause you're not through.
They're not done with you.
Did you think you were
the only one that's been let down?
So sleep tight
little boys of the new damned:
Another drop in the tidal wave of quicksand.
Now I send back letters,
from the wasteland home.
Where I slowdance to this romance on my own.
It may take two to tango,
But boy,
It's one to let go.
Now another bad idea gets through,
Down the assembly line to you!
You're every bridge I should have burned!
Every lesson I've unlearned!
Now in this smokefilled waiting room
With incarcerated love sick fools
I will wait for you to cut me loose.
But 'till then I'll
Send back letters from wasteland home,
Where I slowdance to this romance on my own.
Now I send back letters
From the wasteland home,
From where I slowdance
To this romance on my own.Engine, Engine # 9
Roger Miller
Words and music by Roger Miller
Engine, engine number nine,
Comin’ down the railroad line,
How much farther back did she get off?
Old brown suitcase that she carried,
I've looked for it everywhere, it
Just ain't here among the rest, and
I'm a little upset, yes, tell me...
Engine, engine number nine,
Comin’ down the railroad line,
I know she got on in Baltimore.
A hundred and ten miles ain't much distance,
But it sure do make a difference --
I don't think she loves me anymore.
I warned her of the dangers --
Don't speak to strangers.
If by chance she finds new romance,
Warmer lips to kiss her,
Arms to hold her tighter,
Stirring new fires inside her --
How I wish that it was me, instead of he
That stands beside her.
Engine, engine number nine,
Comin’ down the railroad line,
I know she got on in Baltimore.
A hundred and ten miles ain't much distance,
But it sure do make a difference --
I don't think she loves me anymore.
No, I don’t think she loves me any more
(Fade)
From: "Roy T. O'Conner"